Palimpsest
by Larry Huss
Summary: Hermione gets some of the answers early. She has trouble understanding what all the questions are.
1. Chapter 1

I do not own, or receive any benefit, from the Harry Potter Properties.

Palimpsest

Prologue: Chapter 1

By Larry Huss

"So," Hermione Jean Granger thought, "There is a Higgs Boson. The Cosmological Constant is calculable, and the Arrow of Time points both ways. Just one way is a major trunk line, and the other is a neglected animal track in a marsh. "

She looked down for her last time onto the Earth. Down to where two hundred years and a bit ago there had been Ireland and Britain and something called North West Europe. The vast sheet of the Britannic Sea glittered pure blue, and she cursed again the 'Greater Good.'

He'd probably been right, though, old Dumbledore, right there at the end. Destroying that little corner of the globe, and its theoretically immortal Dread Emperor, was probably a good idea by then. The billion or so who died, from the meteor showers, the tsunamis, the cracking of the Aswan High Dam, the Ring of Fire going off in stages; they were probably worth it to get rid of Tom Riddle and his Horcrux anchors to immortality. Not a very elegant bit of wizardry, though.

She had been in Australia, checking up in secret on her memory-altered parents when wounded Tom (Harry had come so close to taking him down the year before) Riddle had made his move, and perverted some of the more dicey Aztec rituals. So instead of mass human sacrifice preserving the order of the Universe, and keeping the doors between the dead and living closed; the gates of Hell were opened, and the things the Dementors had run from so long ago showed up.

At the end, that night, Albus' Patronus had shown up to let her know that she was the last of the Order of the Phoenix, and that the Heavens would cleanse the Earth. She had only figured out what he meant when the fiery streaks began to crowd the sky, and the reports of the massive ground strikes were being announced on the news programs.

It had worked. For the last few centuries not a squeak had been heard from Lord Voldemort, the undead, or any things that could be called demons. And the fishing was undisturbed and rich in the reaches of the Britannic Sea.

She'd spent the next decade as stoned as a talented Potions Mistress could possibly arrange. A day that she could remember who she really was was a day in pain. Survivor's guilt didn't even begin to cover it.

She eventually gave up trying to 'accidently' kill herself with an overdose, and worked on becoming filthy rich. If you were going to be miserable, you might as well be comfortable about it. And there were things that a talented and wealthy witch could do that eased her conscience, a bit. Still, in time, the excesses of her misspent youth started catching up to her in her sixties, and she used part of her wealth to buy a residential medical clinic on the Moon, and went there to live in the low-stress, low gravity, and the endlessly purified air. Owning the clinic allowed her to play with the records; no one noticed if a name stayed resident for an unusually long time, or if some magically disguised person with a different name did much the same.

Of course she'd thought "What if we'd done…" At one point she'd even funded a think tank devoted to 'Hypothetical Scenarios' that spent the twenty years of its geekish existence working on situations and remedies. The major failure point always came down to information. There had been too little, shared too late. But since even Time Tuners only let you go back four hours or so there was little that she could see that could have been done. Even those useless toys, the ones that had been turned in after the Battle in the Ministry had claimed the majority of the instruments, had gone up when London had become a ball of glowing plasma.

Now she knew better, though at first she hadn't seen how she was any better off. Even if you could go back in time the Solar System wasn't where it had been then, and it would take another century (one she didn't have) to develop the technology to travel to the proper location. The energy cost to send even a few photons back was incredible. How would you aim and calibrate the temporal insertion? All problems that would stump any scientific team. Well, that meant science was out. So she had decided to do the work herself. It had taken two of the last few years she could have.

She developed her Mission Objectives; two were enough:

Riddle had to go.

Damage limited to less than 1 (one) thousand people. Preferably Death Eaters.

Finance: Everything she had accumulated in two centuries of energetic effort, enough to pay for energy connections and a private "meditation site" away from other inhabited domes, so when the show got going the rest of the city of Mare Celestis wouldn't be choking in the dark when every piece of electronic life support equipment in it blew up at once.

Method: High-Energy powered temporal information transfer. Matter would have required too much of everything to work. Only information, the arrangement of already existing things, could be used.

Guidance system: Hermione Jean Granger, witch. Things once in contact remain with a tenuous relationship to each other (quantum entanglement being just one example) Hermione reasoned that things that are each other will maintain a far more certain grip. Hermione Jean Granger still had, after all these years, a few teeth in her skull, a few sections of bone that had never been altered, replaced, or regrown since she was a child. They were the limiting factor on how far back she could target, and the oldest of them was at the limit of her possible control.

Payload: Arithmancy dictated that with the available resources no more than her Numerological Equivalent could be sent. Thankfully not in compressed format. That meant that 184 characters, signs, spaces, line drops, and the like were the limit. How to arrange them… things would start to change as soon as the short message arrived. Say too much, and half the effort would be wasted on things that would have been made impossible by previous actions. Say things too verbosely and very little useful information could be sent. Say them too tersely, and the information would be incomprehensible. How bright had she really been, as a child? And how good at solving things?

For three weeks she worked out the format, the contractions, the minimum separations needed. Even at the end she realized she was abandoning the task, not really completing it. The balance between compression and clarity would certainly be wrong, but even the use of a Pensieve to check her memories couldn't give her an un-ambiguous idea on exactly how to put things. At the last she wished she had had the capacity to add "questionauthority" at the end. But perfection was for the gods, and she was only a witch.

Fuse: A thought, wrapped in a compulsion spell.

Target: The brain of Hermione Jean Granger, age 10, on the day she sat before the office computer at her parents surgery, and had one of those "spells" she sometimes had, that made her feel so odd: June 23rd, 1990.

On August 6th, 2211, she went to the All-Faiths Chapel at the clinic, and locked the door behind her. She knew that not all that many religions looked kindly at witches or wizards, and had installed the place for the comfort of her clients, not her own beliefs. As she was going, very soon, to essentially commit suicide she felt that she was probably on even thinner theological ice than usual. Still, it never hurt to cover as many bets as you can.

"Great Whomever, please help me, or at least stay out of the way. It's for all those who had their lives stolen or ruined, and all those who never got to be. I know I won't actually alter the past, just make a new one that has a chance to defeat Voldemort. The military experts have said that absent an early change in things, it's unlikely we can beat him. So, in most cases, unless I jump the gun, he wins. I just want to save some people by evening out the score. There's no way I'll ever know the difference, if there is one, but please give them a chance."

Ω

The Lord of Things Out of Their Time was interested, and amused. He sent a thought.

"Smoking Mirror, Riddle so made you look bad. Just thought you should know."

Perhaps Tezcatlipoca, the god of sacrifice heard.

Ω

She left the chapel, and took a sealed vehicle to the small radius dome with the great big power lines that was her 'meditation site' and clicked on the taxi's auto-return program so that it went back to the rental agency she'd gotten it from. They'd always played fair with her, after all.

At 16.15, local time, Hermione Jean Granger, age 221, stepped into the runic array inscribed in the floor, used a spell to flip a switch to allow far too much power to surge into some silvery artifacts, and was instantly incinerated.

Ω

At 3:17 GMT, on June 23rd, 1990, Hermione Jean Granger, age 10, was puttering around with her parents' business computer, and didn't have a particular wild sudden surge of accidental magic, and burn out its motherboard. She had a different one, instead. A new infinity of probabilities were born.


	2. Chapter 2

I do not own, or receive any benefit, from the Harry Potter properties.

Palimpsest

What She Did On Her Summer Vacation: Chapter 2

By Larry Huss

Hermione Granger was sitting in front of the computer keyboard in her parents' office. The receptionist had gone for the day; some personal business to do with a colicky baby that wouldn't quit fussing. So, off from school, she was given something to do; direct patients in to the dentists as chairs became available. It was either that, or having one of the actual Doctors Granger constantly popping out and checking to see if people were there. She was good for something, at least.

Not that her parents ever disparaged her; to them she was ice cream and candy, but they were only parents, after all. School was out, so she was here. School was out, so she had no 'friends.' Those creatures were seasonal, depending on how hard the homework or writing assignments were that they needed her to help them with. No school… no homework. She'd figured that out a few years ago. No one (except parents) wanted a Hermione unless they needed a Hermione. And who would, if school was out?

She looked with a dull hatred at the computer. An Acorn Archimedes A300; obsolescent at half her age, and dooming her to her own obsolescence. The only thing that she could do was read and know things, and that outdated box of metal and silicon already did that better than she ever could. Soon everybody would have one of these things, and then who would ever need the Hermione Jean Granger, Model 1, research and writing drudge, ever again?

She put her fingers on the keyboard. She had taught herself to touch-type years ago, it made things look so much more professional. Now she should start to type some suitably childlike story or something, so that when one of her parents came out to check on her they'd see that she was cheerfully exploring the exciting new world of the electronic age, or some such rubbish. The important thing was that they wouldn't see how miserable their friendless daughter was, and be sad themselves. And then try to cheer her up. That was even more depressing to her than there not being any school; hurting those who cared for her.

The screen began to look unnaturally dim, and it felt as if her bushy brown hair had started to frizz up, a sure sign and warning to her that…

"Oh God!" she thought. It was happening again, one of those strange spells when odd things happened, and everything became… different. After the second of them, years ago, she had gone on another of her frenzied knowledge hunts, searching up on epilepsy. She had hid her fears, that she was damaged, from her parents; no use giving them something else to worry about.

Suddenly her fingers were flying over the keyboard, typing at speeds she had never attained before. Her mind was either blank, or filled with too much to understand any single discrete thing at all. Suddenly her hand reached out, hit "print", and she stopped. She felt the heat throughout her body, the slight sweatiness that meant that she had had another fit. She was sure that she had seen sparks at the ends of her fingers, just now.

The printer finished with the short message, and stopped.

"Ok, Granger, it looks like you've fallen low enough to be doing Automatic Writing. Let's see what gibberish you can produce." She had once read a book about Houdini the magician, and his views on Spiritualism and Automatic Writing had influenced her greatly.

There it was, in her hands, a sheet of… something that she really had to think over. She put the paper down. Mrs. Hanty came out from Mum's operating room; Hermione checked her clipboard, and told Mr. Torton to go to the door on the left. She pulled Mrs. Hanty's file, and indicated that she had left, and should be billed later. She folded the results of her seizure, and put it in a pocket of her shirt. For a moment she looked at the computer again, slightly frightened, and put her fingers diffidently up onto the keyboard again. Lightning didn't strike again that day. She wasn't sure if she was glad, or disappointed.

Ω

That night, after a perfectly normal dinner at home with parents who successfully hid their concern at how their daughter was acting just a bit 'off' for her, she went to her room and a spot of light reading. One page's worth to be exact.

_I U_

Either some odd word or a puzzle: I am You.

_U Witch_

Obviously she had cracked, and her buried sub-thing had decided to give her delusions of power. She certainly wasn't a witch, there simply weren't any. So: You are a Witch was the raving of a damaged mind.

_CauldronPubLndon 49CharingCrossRd goDiagonAlly Brng £s_

The capitalization helped, she thought: there is a pub called the Cauldron, a pub at 49 Charing Cross Road in London. It was evidently near something called Diagon Ally (or Alley), and things were sold there. Things she would be interested in. A rare and second hand book store?

She got out her **Standard Student's Geography of the British Islands **(1986 edition), and turned to the index for London Streets. No Diagon anything. She turned to the page that covered that stretch of Charing Cross Road. No suitable alleys, named or anonymous, were shown. Evidently her diseased and feeble brain had made a mistake, one obvious to the most basic intellect! Then it was back to the sheet of print.

_H Potter trainhelpalways_

Someone called Henry (?) Potter was always training, was her friend, and would help her always? Hermione thought that she was a bit old to develop an imaginary friend (though her affection for, and playing with, stuffed animals was probably normal enough, she thought). Perhaps her personality was splintering, and a younger fraction of herself was looking for a friend, and made one up.

_Lesshndup_

That took a bit of work. Finally she figured that if modified it a little it would become: Less hands up. Just what one of her teachers had said in a little, private after school conference. It had been well meant, but if your only value was as a walking encyclopedia, didn't you need to remind people of that at every turn and question? Evidently her sub…conscious was an obedient thing. Or else maybe Mrs. Wilton's advice had finally sunken in deep enough.

_HorcruxEvilVold made_

Mmm. That could have been compressed a bit more and still made as little sense. Evil Vold had made a Horcrux. Why not Vlad, rather than Vold? What was a Horcrux, it sounded vaguely dirty. Or else Vold had made an Evil Horcrux; as opposed to a good one? Was the word Horcrux at all, or something odder yet? In fact, how certain could she be her inner mind hadn't just made the odd typo?

_Scabers=PtgrewAnmagus_

Probably Ptgrew was a name. Was Anmagus one word or two? Anne Magus or Anmagus. Scabers was equal to PtgrewAnmagus, perhaps a secret identity? Pretty much rubbish, decided Hermione.

_LrnOcclumency,Legilmency_

So, her hidden personality wanted her to learn (Lrn, an easy one this time) Occlumency and Legilmency. That sounded like two fields of study; one was probably helping people get eyeglasses. At least this time her inner crazy was interested in her getting a decent profession. She wouldn't be getting bitten (as her parents sometimes complained of) if she was working with people's eyes. And the other was probably some obscure way of pointing her at the legal profession. Well, you don't get bit there much either.

_D conclsfcts_

A definite warning, that one! Someone with the initial D was lying to her. Of perhaps, just not telling her everything she should know. Wracking her brains she was coming up blank for anyone with the initial D who could be important enough to her to make her leave a message to herself. Her parents were Frederick and Jean, her doctor was Thomas Rutan, and as best she remembered none of her teachers had been 'D' named. As for friends…

It was time to go to sleep now. In the morning probably there would only be a blank sheet of paper on her desk, or no sheet of paper. She would look in the fridge and find the leftovers from a completely different meal than she thought she had eaten this evening. All a dream… it would prove all a dream.

Ω

It didn't.

Ω

Jean Granger wondered why Hermione had a practically grim look on her face, and why she looked into the fridge the first thing in the morning. When asked if there was anything she wanted, the girl just shook her head with an almost savage energy. Not like herself at all. Jean Granger was worried; she knew girls sometimes matured faster than expected. Had their little lady suddenly entered the Sullen Teens? Hermione was always full-hearted in whatever she did. A Hermione that was constantly contrary and hostile for the next five or eight years was not something a parent could contemplate with a serene mind. Fortunately, Jean knew her daughter well enough that if this was a temporary storm, she could be diverted into a safer mood.

"So, love, how's about we take a trip to the library? We have a slow schedule at work today. I'm sure your father can handle it all, with a little re-arranging."

That was the cue for Hermione to say that she could get there well enough by herself, but thanks anyway. It didn't happen.

"… don't know, Mum. We could have a girl's day though, couldn't we? I sort of remember the address of this very interesting shop in the city. On Charing Cross Road, I think. Let's look there, and we can have lunch at someplace special, and it will be wonderful!"

Not exactly what Jean had been working for, but the weather was nice, and this Hermione was certainly easier to get along with than the one who had been in the house less than two minutes ago. If only she hadn't had that slight off-timing with her reply. Almost as if her daughter was doing some complicated thinking on the fly, instead of just suggesting their favorite type of shopping.

In the end a bit of shoe shopping came first, and then the lunch. Jean was becoming worried at how bright and cheerful and smiling Hermione was. Usually she was only this perky and bubbly on Christmas day, or when a particularly good museum was next on their vacation schedule. She was definitely hiding something. Jean wondered if Hermione was stalling, before revealing she was entered a new part of her life, and wanted to get her ears pierced, or start dating. Well, they'd given her the basic Talk earlier this year. Perhaps a bit of more practical advice from one who had Been There, and… What was she thinking? Hermione was just ten; if she needed more details at this point in her life, they should all just go into Family Therapy!

She was finally led by her daughter to the location at Charing Cross, and saw a splendid bookstore. When Hermione commented on it was odd to see such a dilapidated pub right next to it Jean was surprised. There wasn't any such thing. When Hermione quizzed her on all the stores up and down the street that she could see and their numbers, she complied with increasing confusion. When Hermione had her pull out her always on-hand note pad, and write down each of the stores, she saw the problem. There was a misnumbering of the doors. These things happened after all. So many things put up and knocked down, hundreds of years of fires and reconstructions, the Blitz. These things happened. She explained this to her daughter, who was sometimes a bit rigid, as children often were.

It didn't go over well. For some reason Hermione was most insistent that there was something there, somehow.

"Mum, I'm probably quite mad. I see a grotty pub right next to the perfectly interesting bookstore that we must get to soon. You can't see it. So I'm insane. Or brain-damaged, I'm not sure which. In any case, I've got to go in to it, and see what it's like. And when I bump my nose against a brick wall you can come over, and pick me up, and gently lead me to the psychiatrist of your choice. I won't resist. But I must try this. Oh, and could you give me about £50? Tell Dad I love you both."

With that, after seeing that her mother wasn't reaching to open her purse, Hermione shrugged and headed off into the blank brick wall between the bookstore and a tobacconist.

"Where do you think you're going, young lady?" Jean managed to get out, grabbing her daughter by one of her swinging arm, as said young lady half-disappeared into the wall.

Ω

Towing her mother wasn't nearly as hard as Hermione had thought it would be; at least if she was currently stunned by her daughter's sudden penetration of solid matter right in front of her. As the pair completed their passage through the front door, Hermione heard Jean say in a very small voice, "a pub." Looking at her made it clear that she wasn't going to be much use for a little while, so steering her to an out of the way corner the girl looked around, and tried to figure out what to do now. She put her philosophical questions about her own sanity aside for the moment; if she was hallucinating she'd get it all straightened out later. Currently none of the oddly dressed people at the tables or huddled in the gloom shrouded booths were paying any attention to them. That wasn't likely to continue, if they kept on acting confused and out of place. Hermione shuddered with tension, then straightened her shoulders and walked up to the barkeep. Dad always said the barkeep was usually the person who knew the most about an area.

There he was: big, bald, and bent, wiping down the bar with the traditional filthy wet rag. The telly got some things right, at least. Seeing a young girl, he tried to put on a non-threatening smile. It worked, despite the gaps in his dental array. Hermione was keyed to notice things like that especially, of course.

"An' what can I do for you, little lady?"

"Please sir, we're new to the neighborhood, and have gotten turned around. Could you please tell us the way to Diagon Alley? "

"Ol' Tom thinks you're maybe a bit new to the witchin' business also, ain't you?"

"I am sir, and my mother is still getting up to speed on it all. I would appreciate it ever so much if you could help us. The directions aren't completely clear that I received. They sort of stopped on directing us here, to your place. Oh, I'm Hermione Granger, sir." With that she gave an embarrassed little bow, not knowing anything better to do.

Old Tom nodded. This wasn't the first time a young witch (as was obvious from the time he saw the girl dragging her stunned mother into the place) had come into the Leaky Cauldron with no background of what to expect. As he glanced over to the Muggle-dressed woman he noticed her head swiveling left and right taking in the Witches, Wizards, Goblins, Hags, and other assorted patrons, taking in their early afternoon refreshment. She was quiet, at least. Muggles who went off violently when they first saw the real world were a disturbance he could well do without. A genial man by nature, he quickly made up his mind how to handle this situation.

"Matt, Matt get your lazy ar… bones over 'ere!"

In a minute or so a very short, bald-headed man showed up, with an apron and obligatory rag tucked into it. He smiled; there were an awful lot of extremely long and sharp teeth revealed. Hermione had to hold herself in a tight grip not to suddenly start or back way. When Matt saw her staying still (even though her eyes did widen a bit) he gave a nod. This one would do.

"Take these two… Miss Granger and her Ma… to the Alley, and help 'em get in. Give 'em directions to Gringotts, too.

"Don't worry child, getting' out is easy, it's goin' in that is a bit awkward for the first timers."

"Thank you sir. What's Gringotts, though?"

"The Bank, deary. You'll need to get your Muggle stuff changed into proper Wizarding currency if you want to get anything in the Alley. Now grab yer Ma, and follow Matt, here. He'll steer you right. And keep on being polite; anyone who rags on you when you're like that is a right proper pillock anyway."

Hermione gave a slightly deeper bow at that, and went quickly to get her mother, who looked like she had recovered enough to start asking questions, especially about several of the place's patrons whose appearances were at the border (or beyond) of what was considered humanity, even by the educated Mrs. Granger.

Matt led them into the back yard of the pub, past tables with customers being as mundane as sipping mugs of (presumably) ale, and others at which a spoon was being used to stir and cool soup. It was the fact that no one was holding the moving spoon that caught the two outsiders' attention. When they were through the gauntlet (so to speak) and in the yard, Matt tapped a counterclockwise pattern on the brick wall at its rear, and the bricks distorted and rearranged themselves into a very respectably sized arched entrance to a bustling shopping street that looked very much like it came out of a historical film of the 'the Victorian Period wasn't miserable' school. Jean was still being dragged (slightly) by her arm, and it was Hermione who took the directions to the bank. Matt had a bit of advice for them, also:

"Just follow the street. It'll be on the right, the Bank. And don't let them cheat you too much. Ya' can't stop them completely. I know; me Mum's a goblin. But if you keep sharp you'll get out with a bit at least. Luck to ya'!"

The two ladies wandered up the street, looking into the shop windows, and seeing very ordinary things: books, cauldrons, robes and their associated pointed hats… perhaps, after all, not exactly perfectly ordinary things. Also they saw some clearly very outlandish things: brooms specialized for racing, pet shops with vultures, and a kiosk selling ghosts to haunt your house (and give it that pre-died-in distinction).

The people moving through the narrow and kinked street continued in the 'Mr. Dickens is Here' theme from the pub. Those not in fullest witch or wizard garb revealed dresses and cloaks, or waistcoats and breeches that would have given all the needed on location and time-warp flair to a production of David Copperfield. Except that after they had gone perhaps a hundred yards or so up the street (Hermione noticed the streets were filled with people, and that there was no evidence of carts, horses, or their… leavings) there was, at a place the street split in a V, a rather different film being introduced into their visual vocabulary.

The _Wizard of Oz_, design done by Brian Froud. Actually… Froud, if he had been experimenting with some of the more unpleasant hallucinogens. In particular there was the someone who was standing outside the white marble building with the brass letters above the door saying **Gringotts**. Someone short, nasty and seemingly with a surprising number of spikes and fangs. No, Hermione saw, they weren't spikes. They were a small collection of polearms and multi-branched throwing things. Well, he wasn't blocking the door, so more like a bank guard than anything else. No reason to falter then, she thought, and continued to pull her mother behind her as she gave a chipper "Good afternoon" to the chainmail-clad security officer, and entered the bank.

Inside there continued the disorientating feeling. The insides were evidently much larger than the outsides appeared, not something a girl raised in the media-savvy Granger household would feel intimidated by for more than an instant. A long row of tellers, each at their own window lined either wall, none of them remotely looking like a human. Green skin, long ears and nose, and other facial features that told her unequivocally 'You're not in your Britain anymore, dearie!' "Mum, you do have your chequebook on you, don't you? I'm not sure they'll take Barclaycard here."

Given a question of an adult, financial nature, Jean Granger came to the fore. She snapped her head in a firm nod, and led her child to the nearest available teller's cage. And got no reaction. She 'hemmed', and got no reaction. Watching the little (she could see, now that she was up close, that he wasn't above three feet tall or so, just like the guard outside) she suddenly smiled. And began to hum an irritating little tune in an irritating way. Soon enough, the teller realized that the pleasure of ignoring her was going to lead to him being subjected to a bad rendition of elevator music for the indefinite future. In self-preservation he responded:

"What can I do for you, human?"

"Change this cheque on a British bank into the local currency, please."

"Less customery fees and the conversion rate, of course." Said with more than a hint of a sneer.

"Which is…?"

"Fifteen percent, if it's on a reputable bank."

"Surely ten…" Jean murmured.

"Twelve, and it's my last offer!"

Hermione looked on with pleasure. Mother was back in the swing of things now. They'd have so much more fun with both of them operating at full (or beyond) capacity.

A little further negotiation and the Grangers left the bank with twenty Galleons, and a moderately displeased Goblin teller. She was cheated, of course, but much less so than the average witch. If the others found out about it he'd be laughed at. Still, it was better than that infernal humming!

Outside they began to work their way up one side of the main street, and down the other. There were some interesting side streets, but the largest one of those looked positively grungy. The sort of thing the film director would have shot his scenes of crime, sordid passion, and general drunken degeneracy. The main street was so much nicer.

At the pet store Jean refused (again) to get Hermione a cat. But she letter her go into the store and pet one. They wondered at the number of owls, toads, and odd aquatic creatures that were being sold. Hermione stopped her mother from going into a store and purchasing a set of self-stirring and self-heat regulating cookware. It would have cleaned them out, and they didn't have the counter space for them anyway. They both couldn't figure out what were the most stylish robes, and beyond admiring the fabric of the samples in the window put off clothes shopping for another day. Ditto shoes.

At **Fineline's Stationers** Hermione got a set of quills, inks, and calligraphy training kit.

At **Flourish & Blot's **they purchased: _A Young Witche's Guide to Manners_, by Hawthorne Mary.

A used edition of _Potions: First through Third Year_ by Horace Slughorn.

_Household Charms, Illustrated_ by Agatha Manx.

_Easy Charms and Hexes_ by Hippolitus Bones, Auror (whatever that was).

_Wandering with Werewolves_by Gilderoy Lockhart.

_Magical History: Condensed and Re-edited_ by June Symonds.

That day's edition of the **Daily Prophet **newspaper.

Satisfied with their afternoon's shopping they left by the **Leaky Cauldron**, and it was far easier to leave than to enter Diagon Alley. While there they had a quick refreshment; Hermione a lemonade (fair, but no prize winner), and Jean a mug of stout (prize winner, and made in the cellar of the place).

On the drive home Jean tried to quiz her daughter, not least about where she had heard about the pub entrance to the… well, what Diagon Alley was exactly was a bit hard to decide. The only response was that it would save time to have that talk with Dad present, and "I'm not mad then, am I?" in a small and wondering voice. "No dear," Jean said, "you're not."

Ω

It was the newspaper that decided Fred Granger, that evening. Gag newspapers were easy enough to have made up; ones with self-moving pictures in them, less so. They went through the paper together, staying at it long past Hermione's regular bedtime. Political news, a police report (so that's what Aurors were!), sports scores for unknown teams and activities, a chess problem, advertisements that were informative if also a bit confusing, and a small little column called "Weekly roundup of Harry Potter Sightings." The last had a slightly defeated air about it. Evidently even the writer was getting tired of endless mistakes and misidentifications. It seemed like some "Where's Waldo" stunt that had gone on too long with no winners.

It finally became the family consensus that Hermione (I U) from the future had written a note to Young Hermione, and sent it via Magic Express. Either there was a closed time loop (all those hours watching _Doctor Who_ had not been wasted), or things up time-stream had gone bad because she hadn't done those things, or gotten a proper warning. That was when the conversation got bogged down for a bit on Alternate Realities and other philosophical concepts. Eventually, they decided it wasn't worth the confusion; they'd deal with the situation as if whatever they did was important, and ignoring the note was a Bad Thing Indeed.

Over the next week, Hermione's odd message from herself, was thoroughly examined, analyzed, and her original conclusions (and confusions) basically agreed to. Local health foods and exotic herb shops provided a surprising number of the ingredients listed in the books on Potions… at least the botanical ones. Enough for a few of the basic mixtures, in any case. Pyrex bowls, cleaned in distilled water, with glass rods for the stirring, enabled Hermione to complete a Numbing Ointment, Scentless Powder, and a decent wizarding equivalent to epoxy glue. And its remover.

It soon became clear that charms and hexes were difficult to do without a proper magic wand, and that use of such tools was restricted (as evidenced by the notes in Auror Bones' book) for underage users. What the actual age for the end of restrictions evidently was so well known as to not needing to be indicated. But all in the Granger house hold agreed that 10 was probably a bit under the line. Some of the Basic Hexes were also rather disturbing. There seemed to be a fairly vicious and adolescent strain in what was being offered for the education of pre-teens.

Reading _Magical History_ lead them to the conclusion that the 'Vold' mentioned in the mysterious bout of Automatic Typing was most likely the 'V…' that was used as the identifier for the latest of a series of Dark Lords that seemed to occur regularly in Wizarding society. The Horcrux things were still mysterious, but no one, on reading of V's deeds, had any doubts that they were probably very evil.

It was at the end of _Magical History_ that one of the lines of her message, in conjunction with the newspaper column, became clear. HPotter was someone she had (was going to) meet (met), and it was important to help him, always. It was evident that he was a boy, nearly her own age. And she would meet him; how odd, how scary, how exciting.

The fields of study recommended for Hermione were still obscure, but her parents assured her that they certainly weren't referring to giving eye examinations, or studying for the bar.

They also regretfully agreed that the warning to not volunteer to answer questions quite so eagerly was probably a note from Future Hermione that indicated a hard-learned lesson in social relations.

'Scabers' and 'Ptgrew' remained obscure, as well as the identity 'D', the concealer. When you got right down to it, almost all the other items had checked out, or seemed realistic; so she put these on the back burner, for contemplation in the future.

That summer Hermione begrudged every hour they had her go down to the local swimming pool and exercise. At least until she had gotten their promise that fifty hours, moving vigorously, in the pool would earn her another little shopping jaunt to London. This time they had a better idea of what to look for, and the shed Fred had set up in the backyard would be perfect for Hermione's work on slightly more advanced potions.

Her vigorous embracing of the life aquatic had gotten Hermione her second trip to **Flourish and Blots**, and she determined that even the most Muggle of the Muggleborn would receive an offer to come to Hogwarts, if they showed some magic in them. 'The Affair of the Self-Repairing Waterford Goblet,' 'Mizzy Benton's Mysterious Backflip,' and, of course, 'Why Hermione's Bedroom Could Never stay Painted That Cute Pink for Very Long,' proved, as did her ability to see through Muggle hiding spells, that she was of at least middling magical nature. It was only as she was about to start her last year at her old Primary school that an awful thought came to her.

She couldn't help but feel that "H Potter trainhelpalways" was an extremely important part of her message. Suppose 'H Potter' wasn't going to Hogwarts? Sure, Harry Potter was, from looking at the date of his birth, due to show up at Hogwarts in a year, the same year she was (she thought) going to be allowed to enroll. Suppose instead that Harry Potter wasn't magical, no matter what the Children's (and often very childish) books about him said? Suppose 'HPotter' wasn't, in fact, the Harry Potter she had read about in wizarding materials at all? Could it be a Henry Potter, a Heidi Potter, a Hank Potter, a Hattie Potter, after all? By going to Hogwarts, pinning her hopes and efforts in that direction so firmly, was she actually going in the wrong direction, again?

Jean Granger shook (metaphorically) a little sense into her on that. Sitting a trembling and distraught girl next to her on the sofa she explained carefully:

"No matter how compressed that message was, an awful lot of it makes no sense unless the author was all for you becoming a trained witch. The whole 'go to Diagon Alley' part could have left off, if you weren't meant to be prepared for the experience. All that was needed was to write… hmmmm… 'U Witch but don't Hogwarts,' that would do it! Or any other magic school could have been put in there.

"So don't worry, darling. Either you'll meet the H Potter you need to find there, or you'll discover how to locate that person, whoever they are."

Hermione calmed down a bit, but a little more thought provoked the next level of paranoid thought.

"Mum, suppose the note isn't really from me, but someone pretending to be me. And giving bad advice on purpose? What will I do then?"

"Don't drink and drive, and learn everything you can that'll let you find out what you should be doing instead. Don't lose who you are, and what you want to become, in 'maybe ifs.' Learning to become a good witch, and a good person, is your first concern. If you do that, the rest will follow. Maybe not some victory with a parade down High Street, but your own life, the way you want it."

There the matter rested. It was an incomplete and partial answer to her questions, but Hermione accepted that there was an awful lot she just couldn't know… yet. That was for the future to reveal, as it was created. Her job, which she accepted eagerly, was to become the best Hermione she could imagine. She'd burn her bridges, and those of her foes, as she came up to them.

Ω

Over the course of the next school year there was at least a little "Lesshndup" done. Painful as it was, Hermione resisted becoming the source of first resort of those in her class that wanted high grades with little effort. What she lost on the straightaways, she made up on the roundabouts. Allowing others to get their hands up before hers, and get credit for answering questions eased into a cautious cordiality with several students, to make up for those who no longer gave lip service to friendship in return for her notes and help. She even discovered several in her class that were friendly for no good reason, except that was the way they were. If she had never changed her behavior she would have never known that she had actually had some friends, all along!

Her grades didn't actually suffer; there was only so much extra credit that teachers were willing to give in any case. Her slightly less hectic academic life allowed her to finish reading through (twice) the basic texts from her anticipated first year of magical education. And swimming, which she had discovered to her surprise was actually mentally relaxing. Her mind would wool-gather while she did laps, and her emotional tensions and obsessions would lessen a bit. It was while doing the third kilometer of a Saturday's session that she realized a potential problem that would come up during the coming summer, and how best (her parents, on hearing about it, approved of her reasoning) to deal with it. Her favorite word that year became 'synergy.'

On July 1st, 1991, there was a knock on the door of the Granger residence. It being a Sunday morning, both of the senior Grangers were present, Hermione being down at pool getting in her morning exercise. As the visitor, a Mrs. Septima Vector, had come with some rather unusual news pertaining to the girl, a slight awkwardness followed, until she decided that nothing would do, but that she reveal the purpose of her visit.

"Mrs. Granger, Mr. Granger, I'm afraid, or perhaps it should be overjoyed, that I have some news for you about your daughter. It is a fact that she is a witch!"

At this point Mrs. Vector, who had preformed this same office as one of those introducing the Muggleborn to their magical nature and opportunities for several years, was somewhat disappointed at the lack of spontaneous outbursts of protests by the parents, or other demonstrations of astonishment or disbelief. Instead, a strange sort of whimsical nonchalance seemed to be the basic emotional tone of the Granger home.

"Well that certainly explains a few things," Mr. Granger said.

"We always did think our little Hermione was special," Mrs. Granger continued. "While we're waiting for her to get back… it shouldn't be more than a half-hour or so… would you like some tea and biscuits?"

It did sound tempting, and when Hermione Jean Granger got back home, swinging her gym bag with her wet towel and swimsuit inside, she found her parents in a friendly and animated conversation with Mrs. Septima Vector (the former Miss Septima Rakoczy) on the need to somehow develop a good enough protective spell, or at least an effective analogous Transfiguration, so as to allow a calculator to be used in a high magic environment.

When Mrs. Vector reluctantly left to get to the other two names on her list for the day, she had agreed to let Hermione lead her parents to Diagon Alley, and had left a very thorough instruction sheet on what to get, where to get it, and what to look out for. Mrs. Vector had spent a little extra time (pleasantly) that day, and saved herself a great deal of extra concern and trouble at a future date by not having to be escort for another bewildered Muggleborn student and parent. As no negative effects ever were reported to her about her slight dereliction of duty, she never thought of it again. Perhaps if the more experienced and suspicious Professor McGonagall had been the one to meet the Grangers that day there would have been some inquires made about why they were so unfazed at what should have been a startling announcement. However, things being what they were, no awkward questions about how calm the Grangers were got asked, and perhaps that was just as well.


	3. Chapter 3

I do not own, or receive any benefit from the Harry Potter Properties.

Palimpsest

Early School Days in Scotland: Chapter 3

By Larry Huss

_Hogwarts:_

_The Fortress Never-Taken_

_ Hogwarts is, famously, the safest place in Britain. It Is known as a fortress that has never been taken by siege or assault, through seven Goblin Wars and the rise and fall of a good half dozen Dark Lords who have attempted it._

_ That this reputation ignores an army of Finnish Warlocks and two Dark Lords* that have in fact seized control of it is something left out of __**Hogwarts: A history**__, even in the highest priced and self-updating editions. These facts are a bit embarrassing, and likely to disturb parents._

_ Besides stone walls, spelled to resist all sorts of transfiguration, Hogwarts is supplied by an unfailing water supply, and has large and regularly stocked larders that would last out a multi-year siege, even if not with gourmet fare. It is far enough from the local high points that no catapult or aimed spell could be directed over the outer walls and into the inner, softer bits._

_ And, finally, Hogwarts has its Wards. Like any good fortress it has multiple layers of guard posts (in a magical sense) and outer defenses. Like any other place of defended safety it has a number of levels of alert. After all, trying to educate children when all the doors are bolted and the windows barred would not be easy, or reassuring to the paying parents._

_*Leading to the wards against aerial approach without permission. Also: "Gold may be the Key to many a fortress."_

Hermione Jean Granger looked up from her copy of _My School Days _by Arnulf Scamander, toward the three boys trying to impress each other in her compartment of the Hogwarts Express. Each had their own way. There was Ron, the would-be jock, who was trying to skate over the fact he had never actually played Quidditch in any form but a backyard scrimmage, and posed as the arbiter of all that was important in the sport. There was Neville, looking positively adorkable, who was trying for 'I'm just one of the guys' with might and main, despite being dressed in about £ 500 worth of casual clothes that were in quiet, good taste, despite being bought and selected by a wizard!

And there was Harry. The one and original Harry Potter; the subject of folklore and urban legend. Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived. He was playing at being an object of charity, with some theatrically shabby hand-me-downs, and an over-the-top pair of badly taped-together eyeglasses. It was probably sweet, him not trying to lord it over everyone, but it was common knowledge that the Potter family was at least well-off, perhaps even positively wealthy. It almost worked, too. The boy was thin, almost unhealthily so. His eyes had fixated on the lunches Ron and Neville and she had brought out early in the trip, as if he hadn't eaten well in days. He'd even seemed humbly grateful when he was given shares. It had to be admitted that he wasn't stingy in buying most of the stock of the candy-butcher when she showed up, and passing it around; that much ready cash proving that he was secretly not hard up for cash. She'd decided to call the lady with the sweets cart by the old fashioned term, candy-butcher, since so much of her wares hopped, slithered, or tried to crawl to safety from the hungry (or at least greedy) mouths of her customers. Hermione had almost succumbed to giving the boys a little sermon on proper dental hygiene and diet, but remembered her lesson, "Lesshndup," and instead just joined in the orgy of sugar and cocoa. It was curiously refreshing.

Finding Harry had been, literally, child's work. Back when Britain was a far wilder and woodier place it had only made sense for wizarding parents to make sure the first spell their children learned, even before they qualified for a wand, was a way to get home when they had wandered off. In some ways, "Point Me" was the foundation block of all subsequent British magic. And, like so many very basic things, its importance was eventually neglected and forgotten as both the land and its magics were tamed. If she hadn't found it in a badly foxed copy of _Charmes Mie Ancient Morther Toughted Mie _by Athelstaine Moonrich (1507 ed.) she would have had to wander from car to car, and from compartment to compartment of the train. Poking her head in to each one, and looking like a snobbish jackass asking for Harry Potter, and insulting the occupants when she went on to search the next one as soon as he proved to be elsewhere. Like Malfoy.

Instead she had just used the little incantation (made simple enough for even a five year old witchling to remember), and after three increasingly close pointings she'd gotten such a positive reaction that she had entered the right compartment and claimed her seat with perfect aplomb. Only Ron and Harry had been there at the time, Neville arrived later, after having rounded up his wandering pet toad with a prefect's assistance. Her first successful use of real, purposeful magic (legally allowable as the Express was legally part of Hogwarts for the duration of the run) made her feel a little giddy, and she was perhaps not quite as mentally focused as she thought she might be on finally entering her big adventure.

The boys showed each other their pets (familiars? Hermione wasn't too sure where the line was between the two concepts). She supposed that as toads go (and that wasn't all that far for her) Trevor was a fine specimen; she really didn't know that much about them. Certainly he was not slimy (something she had read about, but never quite believed), and seemed, now that he had been able to get his walkies for the day, to be very content to just sit in Neville's hand and be gently stroked on the head.

Ron, naturally, immediately tried to top that, and pulled out what was evidently his 'family rat' (it had served as the companion and pet of his much older brother, Percy, also) from his pocket. It was a particularly obese, mangy and lethargic specimen called Scabbers. What a… lovely name! It was missing a front toe also; "Always been like that, even when we found him." In general she would have, if given a choice, picked Trevor for herself, if she had been placed in the unenviable position of having to make a choice between them at all. She'd seen enough cute mice, hamsters and even rats to want something a bit more lively and appealing for a personal rodent. Now, if she only had a cat…!

Harry… well Harry blew his cover identity of poverty by proudly showing off the most beautiful bird, a huge white owl, with the most intelligent eyes, and the seeming ability to actually understand what all the others were saying. She even had the self control not to make a lunge at Scabbers when the rat passed near her beak. Though that might have just been a fastidious palate.

Shortly after the introductions were made all around, and Neville had taken a seat, poor Malfoy had shown up with two tired lumps of muscle who evidently weren't even worthy to be introduced.

"I'm Draco Malfoy, of the Wiltshire Malfoys. Any of you odds and sods Harry Potter?"

He said it in such a weary and hopeless manner; the result of having gone through the same routine at least thirty times before. Or at least having opened up compartment doors and dodged out when upper Years began to throw spells at him. It was enough to break anyone's spirit, or at least depress it considerably.

"Well, I haven't seen that sod today, have any of you guys?" Harry replied.

"He might have poked his head in here; I think he was trying to avoid admirers," said Neville.

"Do you have a description? It'd help us loads," said Ron.

Malfoy turned his eyes to Hermione, waiting for her expected brush-off: "And you?"

She took her lead from the boy's style and tenor, "I'm nobody who should be given notice by one of the Malfoys of Wiltshire." She used her most humble voice.

That revived the tow-head a bit; even if she wasn't being helpful, she was at least acknowledging how important he was. Still, there were five more passenger compartments to check, and he had his orders. He turned, neglecting the petty niceties of a farewell, and left. His companions grumbling as they slid out of his way, and they all shuffled off to the next place to receive more bad news.

Harry got up and shut the sliding door. "You know, I really haven't looked in a mirror all day."

"You are trying to avoid too-avid admirers, aren't you?" asked Neville.

"If the little snot had bothered to give a description I'd have known if you were an imposter or not. Now I'll never know," sighed Ron.

"I've read about the Malfoys, of Wiltshire. The newspaper makes it very clear that one of them has many better things to do than talk to a little 'mudblood cow.'"

Both Ron and Neville immediately broke out with "Don't say things like that!" and "Never let anyone call you that!" Harry just looked bewildered.

"It's a low expression that some arrogant Purebloods use. It's filthy like… you know." Ron was at a loss to express a similar insult, without actually being guilty of using it.

Harry actually blushed a little with anger then, but quickly realized that it wasn't something that Malfoy had actually said, after all. Hermione had made a pre-emptive strike with her self-insulting. Still, it was evidently something she thought that Malfoy would have used, if he had known she was Muggle born. He began to brood a bit, but was interrupted when she got up, and formally shook hands with Neville and Ron, and then smiled and did the same with him.

"Thank you, guys. I thought it was something a bit raw, but I couldn't really be sure. Now I know… and I know what you're like, also. I hope we get into the same house."

Ron looked at the girl. She looked so small and fragile; how was she supposed to wrestle a Troll?

Neville saw her, so confident and ready to take on a world she couldn't have the slightest idea of how to handle but ready to give it every ounce of her being. He wanted to be like that… he hungered for it.

Harry saw someone as ignorant and unprepared for the wizarding world as he was; perhaps they could learn together how to deal with it. At least there wouldn't be bullies and brutes like Dudley and his gang to harass him, prevent him from doing his best, and then be rewarded for it.

Perhaps someone, or -thing, heard this somewhere, and laughed.

Ω

Daringly, Hermione had trailed her hand in the Black Lake as the new students were given their boat trip to the Castle. Up ahead she had seen the Giant Squid putting on a display, and had hoped to lure it a little closer for a better inspection. Alas, when she had mentioned that the others in her boat (Wayne Hopkins, Lisa Turpin, and Mandy Brocklehurst) all protested loudly. That evidently scared the creature away, to her great disappointment.

At least the waters seemed warm… for the Scottish Highlands, anyway. She might be able to get a few weeks of swimming in it if there wasn't a pool in the school and the Squid wasn't too aggressively carnivorous. She'd have to ask.

Later, when all the First Years had been lined up in their queue, she tried to make small talk with her nearest neighbors, the boys she had ridden up with all being in different sections of the file. It was hard, all of them were getting nervous, and being marched into the Great Hall with its ceiling fading away into infinity didn't make it any better. Nor did the way the hundreds of students already seated there turned their hungry eyes on the newcomers, asking an unspoken question: 'Will we get you? Or will we get you?'

At least it was only putting on a hat that got you placed. Hermione had been certain that they all wouldn't be wrestling a Troll or anything. That would only be a good sorting task for Gryffindors, after all. There could have been a riddle for Ravenclaws, solving a scheme for Slytherins, and … something… something… something for Hufflepuffs. But her mind couldn't find its balance and her thoughts were whirling around in her head asking 'What am I doing here? Why do I have to be before Potter and the others?' When her name was finally called she wasn't the first person who had to be given a little nudge to recognize it, and half-stumble up to the stool, and the Hat.

When it… the Hat… settled on her head she stopped noticing the Hall, its occupants, or time itself. There was a soft, but firm, voice, and a feeling like a well organized desk drawer (it was Hermione's mind, after all) being gently gone through. If a drawer could feel, of course.

"My, for someone so young you have been working hard and long on a scheme, haven't you?"

"More of a… work-study project… Mr. Hat?"

"It certainly qualifies you for-"

Thinking furiously Hermione interrupted, she had heard enough to know that "scheme" and Slytherin went together very often. "Muggleborn" and "surviving in Slytherin" didn't have nearly as much currency.

"I'm more a straightforward, easy-going girl. You know, swimming and bookish and a bit too nervous when I have to check my back all the time to see if there's a knife or two in it. Really, another House than Slytherin would be nice. Do you have any idea where Longbottom, Potter, or Weasley are going? They need me (and I need them)."

"Exactly why I know you should go to-"

At least, she though, Hufflepuff wouldn't be so bad. The House of the Matey, things could easily be worse.

"Gryffindor!"

She pulled the Hat off of her head, and set it down on its stool, with a savage glare. If it was going to put her into one of the Houses she had been looking forward to it could have done so without sending her through the wringer. She stomped off with her mind in turmoil, and her knees feeling weak. She was glad when her bottom landed on a bench next to a set of red-haired twins.

"Gryffindor, right?"

At their nod she lay her head down for a second, and quietly had the shakes. She felt an awkward hand patting her back, and a tentative "there, there."

Taking a deep breath she pulled herself upright again, gave her uncertain comforter a blinding smile, and turned to see where her only friends in the nearest several hundred miles would be sorted to.

"Healing touch, Fred?" asked one of the redheads.

"Sheer natural charisma, I think. Or incredible sex appeal," came back from the other.

"A little young, don't you think?"

"They grow up so fast, nowadays!"

Ω

After that, instead of everything seeming to happen in a crowded flash, everything dragged as each student went up and spent a separate eternity under the Hat, until they were put in their (hopefully) proper place.

Neville went to Gryffindor because of who he was, and because he was following a star.

Harry went to Gryffindor because he could handle anything thrown at him, and because the Hat had felt a shiver of fear when it had started to shout out another name.

Ron went to Gryffindor because… well… a Weasley. Do the Arithmancy. There, all done!

Ω

The Feast that followed the Sorting was probably magnificent. Hermione couldn't really tell, she was too excited to really taste what she had heaped onto her plate. They were all together, all of them. Did her logical arguments (or little hissy fit, much depended on how you viewed things) influence the Hat, or had it known in advance, or… anyway, they were all together.

Her companions in the female dorm that night proved a mixed bag of the ethnic background of Britain. All four of them seemed nice enough, even if a few seemed a bit more flighty than others: Patil and Brown for example. But Kandice Kellah had come up at once with a plan for short review sessions after curfew (it only made sense, they'd all be having the same classes for the next few years), and Fay Dunbar had let them know how to best handle the clean-up arrangements for their room; having House-Elves doing all of it could end up biting you on the bum if you didn't know how to utilize them properly. Luckily her family was wealthy enough to have one on staff. Hermione and Kandice hadn't even known there were House-Elves, Parvati Patil's family never used them for some reason, and Lavender Brown's just couldn't afford to get one. All-in-all, Hermione had a good feeling about her first experience with living away from home.

That feeling was a little dented after she had spent the night hearing snoring, turning over, post-midnight visits to the bathroom, and several un-ladylike noises which might have been the house settling (as it had for the last fifteen centuries or so) or some of the castle ghosts coming in for a look at the new students (or was it meat?). Sharing the sanitary facilities in the morning and getting dressed and down to the Great Hall for their morning meal on time wasn't easy. Nobody had yet figured out how the stairways moved. It wasn't just that they moved laterally. Parvati was certain that they had been going down one from the third floor to the first, but they somehow ended up on the fourth level again. Hermione now knew what to ask her parents to send as decoration for the walls of their room: a print by Escher, the Dutch artist of distorted space and interpenetrating dimensions.

Still, and at last, they were seated with their Housemates before the food ran out, dodged the swooping owls bringing letters and some of the smaller objects that hasty packers had left at home in their haste the day before, and received their schedules for the coming year. It was Potions that would lead off her career in witchery! The only one of the magical arts she had really gotten a chance to practice on in advance. Call it a bit of luck!

Ω

In the end it was a lot less fun than she had thought it would be: the Slytherins were taking the same session with them, and Malfoy had lunged at them (Hermione, Neville, Ron and Harry) like a little rabid white rat, yelling and threatening them for making fun of him. That rather startled not only the others Gryffs, but seemed a complete surprise to the Snakes there also. Luckily enough Ron hadn't decked him yet (but it was getting close to the end point of the Weasley temper by then) when Professor Snape came in, all billowing robes and obviously eager to make an impression. Being upstaged by one of his own (he was Head of Slytherin House) Firsties having a temper tantrum did not please him very much. In fact, it was obvious he had a whole routine set up for introducing his subject, and ridiculing any Gryffindors he could find in his class, but the effect was all lost by having to deal with an obvious breach of conduct by Malfoy (who had evidently hung out with some very potty-mouthed types in the past), and he never really got into his dramatic rhythm.

That wasn't so bad, but Neville blew up his cauldron from nervous over-additions of ingredients, and getting splashed by some byproduct of their class work had to go to the Infirmary. That cost Gryffindor ten points, plus a great deal of ridicule.

Ron and Harry had marveled at the sight of a student literally holding down her right arm with her left, after Hermione had already rushed to answer the first two questions Professor Snape had offered to the field. Afterwards, and as they tried to locate the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, they walked besides her and asked if she had ever pulled a muscle throwing her hand up too fast. She almost created a medical ailment on the spot, but then remembered that she'd be dealing with the boys for years and years.

"I'm… I don't know how to say this properly… I'm a fanatic over-achiever. There, it's out! It's been a problem for years. It started out small, little things. Reading assignments a week in advance, actually revising homework before handing it in, little things. And answering questions in class of course. Always answering the questions in class.

"And then… and then… it was cashing in on all the extra credit assignments, and then binding them in special clear covers with colored labels and indexes. It got worse and worse. Finally hardly anyone would talk to me anymore, it was 'there's the Granger girl, she knows everything, how can anyone stand her?'

"I realized I needed help, so I took a self-help course. Guys, please, if I try to answer more than two, or three, or four at the most questions in a class, hold me down until the urge passes. If I spend more than four hours doing nothing but turn pages while everyone else is partying, slam the books shut and make me do laps around the castle or something. Can you, please?"

Ron looked at her with compassionate eyes: "Hermione, I'll interrupt your studying every chance I can. I can't stand to see a woman waste her life away with stuff like that. That's what friends are for."

"What Ron means is that when you're starting to make a project twice as long as it is supposed to be, and you're doing assignments a month in advance we'll throw pillows at you until you come out of your coma and beat us senseless," Harry said in a practical tone. "Did you really understand what Snape was trying to do back there?"

"I think he was trying to scare us silly, especially the Gryffindors," Hermione said. "It's sad really; I think he really knows his stuff. Having to bully a bunch of First Years… sad really. And we should call him Professor Snape, being respectful all the time will annoy him endlessly."

It took almost all the time they used to get to the Defense class to convince the boys of the logic of her position, but first Harry, and finally Ron, agreed that cheerful behavior was more likely to make him look silly than being a surly student. If all the rest of the Staff saw them as eager and respectful, any bad stories Professor Snape might spread about them would be more likely to get them sympathy than hostile scrutiny.

It took ten minutes in her defense class for her to begin to ask herself the question: if Hogwarts was one of the great Magical Schools, what incredibly low standards did the minor institutions have in hiring staff? Her first teacher evidently had a grudge against children (from the way he had questioned Harry, and tried to unsettle Neville), while the second one (Professor Quirrell) smelled bad and couldn't come out with a single clear and comprehensible sentence. Not what you wanted from someone whose teachings might be needed to save your life.

The next day's classes were a semi-step up. In the morning they had Charms, and Hermione had as hard a job as any of the girls not squeeing from the cute when they saw their Professor (Flitwick). Small, brisk, cheerful, and (thankfully) actually knowledgeable and articulate about his subject. After Quirrell that was a major consideration. After their History of Magic lesson that afternoon, it was even more of one.

Being taught by a ghost was evidently unusual, even for a magical school. None of the students from Magical families were any less startled than she was. But all the students, even those who were making demeaning noises about Muggleborn ignorance, seemed to be unwilling to let that prevent them from pulling out their parchment and quills in preparation to taking the fullest notes possible.

Then Professor Binns managed to prove that even having seen hundreds of years of history didn't mean you actually knew how to teach it. Binns (she was disappointed enough not to insist on the honorific anyway, he didn't seem interested in using their proper names either) had managed to do the impossible. Professor Quirrell seemed competent in comparison.

The next day's session of Potions was much like the last, thankfully without an actual cauldron meltdown, or visit to the Infirmary. Professor Snape was about to get the sharp edge of her tongue for his partiality to his own House members when an alert Ron reached over and stepped on her foot to bring her to her senses. She turned to him and whispered, "Thanks, I needed that." The boy began to blush; he wasn't used to treatment like that at all. The Professor seemed disappointed that he was only able to dock Gryffindor for three points that session, and didn't have the slightest excuse for even one Detention.

When Herbology came around Hermione got a distinct shock. Neville proved some sort of a prodigy, with Harry not all that far behind him. Even Ron was more familiar with some of the plants that were growing in the greenhouse where the First Years did their work than she was. She could give the definitions of a clone, thrip , aphid, runner, tuber, and bulb with the best of them. Actually identifying them was evidently one of those things that the eye could only be educated to do by lots of practical experience. That was the first time that Ron and Harry had to actually grab her arms and pin them to her side, else Professor Sprout would have started getting very short with the Gryffindor contingent for excessive question asking. When Neville heard about her problem, as they went to Transfiguration, he also swore to help break her of annoying and reckless perfectionism. She wasn't sure if she was glad or worried that she had so quickly gotten such kind and caring friends.

Astronomy was a late-night session, luckily it was only held once a week. At least the teacher was competent, and seemingly even the most snarky of the Slytherins that were in their session were forced to admit that they were absolutely lost on discovering how to use their equipment, or locate any but the most obvious stellar relationship. Hermione felt a little smug; she had pretty much memorized the constellations when she had decided to become an astronaut at age nine.

Charms was evidently going to be one of her favorite subjects, and one in which she would be vying with Harry for first place in the class. Neville and Ron seemed poor drubs at it; pretty hopeless cases. Trying to figure out why her friends had such a hard time at what was obviously one of the core elements of being magical, she noticed an oddity. While Harry's, and hers, and all the other wands of the students in her field of view, were smooth and unmarked in all the wooden parts, both Neville's and Ron's had a number of scratches and dings on them. They looked, for want of a better way of describing them, beat-up. Both boys had polished them; the sheen was unmistakable. So it wasn't a matter of improper maintenance. It was as if they were… old, used, and second-hand. And Dad had said when Mum had wanted them to get a previously-owned vehicle instead of a brand-new one that when you buy something used, you're buying someone's problems with it.

Of course Mr. Ollivander had said when she had gotten her wand from him that "The wand chooses the user." But despite her being Muggle-born he hadn't tried to direct her to a used wand, but had made sure that it was one that responded eagerly to her magic. He'd meant it. Why were the boys using recycled stuff? But she couldn't figure out any way to ask the question delicately. Now that she knew Ron a bit, she knew his family was short on funds; a lot of his stuff was hand-me-down. Perhaps his wand was also? And not really suited to him?

But, what kept Neville from having something as bespoke as his shoes? Nothing about him was second-class. Even Harry, still wearing (under his new robes) clothing nearly in patches, had a beautiful wand in pristine condition. Why would Neville's family begrudge him something fitted perfectly to him in the essential part of wizarding equipment? Unless, perhaps, maybe, he really was nearly a Squib, and barely able to do any magic at all. Thinking about how that might look to a family she'd seen described as 'Noble and Ancient' made her deeply concerned about him. No wonder he was so likely to be self-deprecating.

She got a grip on herself. This was speculation piled on speculation. Perhaps it was better to get some experimental data, before she went all mushy about their problems. Harry's wand worked very well it seemed. So did those of her roommates, and her own. Now all she had to do was develop a proper scientific protocol…

Transfiguration was transforming for her. Entering the classroom that was the domain of her House Head had had a special thrill to begin with. But when the tabby cat that was resting on the desk at the front transmuted into Professor McGonagall, a small thunderclap went off in her head and a beatific vision filled her mind. She heard the teacher's opening speech well enough, and even went through the motions of following the lesson and transfiguring something to something else. She may even have done it; she was hardly paying attention to exactly what her wand was doing. Harry, evidently, did very well, and she had congratulated him absently as they went to lunch.

Over the meal, as the worried boys questioned her on what was going on, she finally came down enough to explain. It was really very simple. She had always wanted a pet, especially a cat. And-

"I don't think the Headmaster will let you take McGonagall as a pet," Neville broke in with, not even getting reprimanded for leaving out the 'Professor' part.

"We're not even too sure that Professor McGonagall would be entirely in favor of that," Ron added.

"And if we let Hermione talk, we'll find out what that 'and' was going to lead to," Harry pointed out.

"… And I think that even better than getting a cat would be to be able to become one. My parents couldn't object to having their furry daughter around the house, could they? I mean it would be so cool. No… so fabulous to be able to just turn into a cat! Or maybe you could turn into some other thing. I mean, we know it's possible; we've just seen it!" Hermione said, loud enough to be heard two places further down the table where Fredrick Weasley sat next to his brother George, who pondered what mischief should be next on their agenda.

A sweet and sinister smile appeared on his lips as he turned to his brother. "I like how that little lady thinks, Forge. I know what we're going to be doing for the next few days…"

Ω

If truth be told, when Hermione stood over her broom that afternoon, and prepared for the first time to enter into her newly discovered aerial heritage, she felt just the least bit nervous. Or perhaps a bit more than that. She had never been the greatest fan of roller coasters, the appeal of bungee jumping somehow eluded her, and though she had developed a love of swimming, she had such a great respect for the high diving board at the pool that she never used it.

It was reassuring that the flying instructor, Madam Hooch, informed them that the brooms were of a thoroughly tested model ("ancient pieces of thatching"), and had charms on them to keep riding astride from being a bruising experience. In fact all the less magically sophisticated in the class (both Gryffindor and Slytherin for this class) took comfort in that announcement, especially the boys.

Still, when the time came to call the brooms to hand by a firm command of "Up!" she wasn't the only person to have a minimal response from her steed-to-be. She wondered, who had sat on it last, and had it been sanitized since then? Also, 'do I really want to do this?' Evidently a lack of a firm commitment could give you troubles in getting the stained wood and straw contraption started. In any event, hers only rolled over with a faint flop.

Neville's didn't respond at all, Ron's rose slowly but surely into his hand, and Harry had it jump into his prepared palm with a sharp slap. Predictably, Malfoy seemed equally adept at the skill (but Harry had never done it before, and Malfoy had probably been able to practice dozens of times!), and began a fine gloat. That was interrupted, before any proper insults could be thrown out, by the fact that Goyle had called his broom into the air with commendable authority and power, but grabbed for it with the wrong hand and missed it completely. He was reduced to watching it ascend unmounted, seemingly seeking to become the first broom in Space. Hermione wasn't the only one there to hear Draco's muttered, "Merlin, not again!" The reaction from the other Slytherin First Years was considerably louder and less polite.

Madam Hooch quickly ascended and retrieved the erring artifact, and handed it back to the student (around the five hundredth or so to have had the opportunity to use it) with a deep and weary sigh. No other comment was needed. Draco and Crabbe blushed in sympathy for their friend; the rest of their House spent a lot of time not looking in that direction.

Finally, after a quarter-hour's worth of instruction, frustration, and finally desperation, all the students were riding their brooms in a large circle twenty feet above the ground, Instructor Hooch off to the side and a dozen feet higher to supervise and offer constructive (?) criticism. The little circus slowly circled to the right for a short time with little trouble. Hermione was looking around her and becoming irritated with herself. There were at least as many girls as boys riding with style and comfort (those Cushioning Charms could have done with a bit of refreshing in her opinion), but she wasn't one of them. People she was beating in every other subject were showing her up. Then came the call to wheel to the outside, and then form up again in a circle to tamely go in the opposite direction. It was like doing horse riding dressage Hermione thought. Too bad she'd never done any of that, either.

Still, she didn't fall off, a fate more than one student had managed to achieve. She noticed something very interesting as she observed the confusion. Neville had mentioned that, from a small height at least, wizards and witches were evidently very resistant to damage. Then there was a sharp poke in her ribs, her observations had distracted her from keeping her speed constant, and Daphne Greengrass hadn't braked in time to avoid a minor collision. That was probably because Blaise Zabini had been showing off by weaving back and forth, and had been going at an excessive speed. The causes were less important than the effect, which was a widening ring of impacts, cursing, waved fists, and finally Vince Crabbe proving his mastery of the broom-riding art by leaping off the one he was riding on and tackling Seamus Finnigan who had just made a very rude comment about Crabbe's mother. At that point a circle of confusion became a sphere of conflict.

It was… mainly… at first… Slytherin versus Gryffindor. The ramming of Daphne by Pansy Parkinson was evidently a personal matter, unrelated to larger issues. Tracey Davis blocking Millicent Bulstrode with a well done Confundus Charm, when she was going to Parkinson's defense against an assault by Dean Thomas defending Parvati Patil, brought out the fact that despite the tradition of Slytherin against the world there were deep fissures within that house. In any case, from then on it was pretty much a free-for-all, with Slytherin by far the more divided of the groups. Madam Hooch yelled, took points, and applied detentions to no avail. The riot continued until an irate Sprout, and the Headmaster himself, showed up to ground the lot of them with a variety of stunning, freezing, and immobilizing charms.

Hermione surreptitiously brushed away a few wisps of short black hair (Goyle would never miss it, she was sure) and tried to look properly contrite. It didn't seem to work very well. The entire group of Gryffindor First Years were penalized a cumulative total of five hundred points, and given five detentions each with various teachers that were not associated with any particular House. To be fairish, the Slytherins received similar punishments. But there were also dark rumors that when their House Head learned of how they had violated the Prime Directive of Slytherin House ('Always show a united front in public') there would be the scent of blood in the air, perhaps literally.

Oddly enough, both Harry and Draco Malfoy were singled out for exemplarily punishment, though as far as Hermione saw they both had been among the more temperate (i.e. less riotous) than most. Evidently standards were being set higher for The-Boy-Who-Lived, and Draco Malfoy of the Wiltshire Malfoys. They were given to Argus Filch, the caretaker. Who for once was allowed to take the gloves off.

"Just this once, just this once," Hermione whispered to Harry as he was being led away to some unknown and horrid fate: "I'll do your homework. Since you're receiving special punishment. But don't count on it ever happening again!"

He smiled back at her, as he went bravely off to his fate. Honestly, though, he'd heard that Filch did some sort of Medieval threatening all the time, yet the Weasley twins still had a head apiece. He'd washed floors with mop and pail before. Nothing to worry about!

Ω

"Hang around here often?" Harry Potter asked Draco Malfoy, clanking his chains in a friendly way.

"No, first time for me. Do Muggles do this a lot?" Draco replied, projecting an invincible air of sophisticated boredom. One had one's front to maintain, after all. Still, in situations like this one should show some degree of solidarity with one's fellow sufferer. He rattled the chains connecting him to the dripping wall in sympathy.

"I suppose it had to happen, sooner or later. I mean, if Filch never got to chain anyone up, no one would take him seriously anymore, would they?" Harry said philosophically.

"True, true. But even though it's an old, traditional, and customary punishment, I'm not really certain Father will consider my present situation one likely to add luster to the Malfoy name."

Harry pondered this for a few moments. After all the detention would be running for several hours more, he had plenty of time. "So, sucks to be you?"

The tow-head nodded. "Sucks and double sucks. Professor Snape is my Godfather. What he leaves will, sooner or later, get worked over by Father. For my own good. For letting down the name."

"Belt or cane?" Harry asked, interested in learning about life among the elite. Uncle Vernon had merely given him the odd clip on the ear from time to time. Dudley and his friends had more than made up for the physical punishment side of having a miserable home-life.

"Please, please, Potter. We're an old and magical family. Belt and cane are so… Muggle. Pain and humiliation have been studied for hundreds of years by my family. You couldn't understand…"

"Sucks to be you. I'm sorry, and I don't even like you. And we two didn't even start it! I mean, here we are, and… why?"

"Malfoys lead, even when we don't. Uneasy lies the head that wears the… hair? All of a sudden I'm not feeling all that witty. I'll just get quiet, and… panic. Ah, you're not bad company, Potter." With that Draco leaned back and went silent. Harry had an active enough imagination that he could empathize with the Slytherin. Layers of respectability, alternating with layers of demands that could never be either satisfied or protested. Harry had been buried under that sort of thing often enough. As Malfoy slowly panicked in silence, Potter began to do some deep brooding and reminiscing.

This continued as the Great Bell of Hogwarts rang nine. Only two hours more to go now. Piece of cake. Filch had come in to the old dungeon for a little time of quiet appreciation. It wasn't often that he was given the opportunity to see that things were being done up right. Now, with both The-Boy… and a Malfoy triced up in chains he'd start getting a bit of the respect a person in his responsible position should be getting. It was true the Headmaster had put a block on the use of even the most tender of the traditional Devices and Instruments of Correction, but still… a good start toward bringing back a proper sense of order and discipline to the old heap.

When Harry showed up back in the Gryffindor Common Room Hermione waved a thick roll of parchments at him; their History, Potions, and Defense essays. She felt a little guilty, looking around her at all the other First Years feverishly trying to get something down before Potions the next morning. She, of course, had secretly done it two days ago.

But he just brushed past her with an urgent, "Thanks, lovely of you. I'll be back!" She felt a burning surge of resentment, until she noticed that he was making a speedy and straight run directly to the Boy's Lavatory, with no more than a wave to anyone else, either. His detention had been twice as long, and evidently twice as… uncomfortable as that the other Gryffs had endured, evidently. She forgave him when he returned, properly contrite, a few minutes later.

Ω

The next day all the Slytherin First Years ate their breakfasts standing up. Rumors abounded for the reason for that, but dog-whips and canes held pride of place in the speculations. Harry and Malfoy had nodded to each other when they saw each other in the Great Hall. They had evidently come to some sort of accommodation during their shared incarceration. Was this a good thing, Hermione asked herself. She had obeyed future Hermione and helped Harry Potter; should she protect him from being seduced by the Power of the Dark Side (as Ron insisted Malfoy was a representative of)? Or was that smug Sorting Hat right about there being a need for solidarity between the Houses? She wished she could talk to Mum about it.

Double Potions that day was surprisingly not as awful as she had expected. The Gryffindors had, in general, produced something approaching the assigned homework assignment, while many of the Slytherins (some red eyed and snotty nosed) had not. So Professor Snape couldn't in good conscience take many points off the Lions. Neville survived the class uninjured, while Vince Crabbe burnt his hand. In the event she noticed two things: Gryffindor only lost two points (seemingly some sort of a record), while Slytherin had actually accumulated… none! The other thing was that the Slytherin students had been able to sit without any noticeable discomfort during the class, so the dog-whip/cane hypothesis was probably wrong. Evidently Professor Snape had certain limitations after all.

That afternoon, after an actual swim in the Black Lake (surprisingly pleasant after Percy Weasley, trying to collect favorable notice for his eventual campaign for Head Boy, had put a Warming Charm on her) to the amazement of those strolling students who had seen her in the waters, she went to the Library and discovered that Professor McGonagall was an Animagus. And also what the process was to achieve that state.

She also had to fight the Weasley twins for several books on the subject. Finally, they came to a treaty arrangement. She'd do the Library research (she'd caught up to them, even though they'd been able to get a faster start due to a lack of detentions), while they provided the place and materials for the initial revelatory concoction. So both sides of the agreement were productive.

Over the weekend she swam twice, nailed down a short and practical formula for the Potion, and George discovered a loophole in the Wizarding Regulations regarding licensing in regard to students in a full time educational environment. The twins also managed to get the eagle door knocker for the Ravenclaw tower to speak its entrance riddle in reverse Pig Latin for the course of Sunday. The result was that a good third of the House were reduced to raging frustration outside the Tower when they came back from breakfast that day and wanted to get cleaned up, or get back to their studies.


	4. Chapter 4

I do not own, or receive any benefit, from the Harry Potter Properties

Palimpsest

Horrid Happenings in Hogwarts: Chapter 4

By Larry Huss

After the fiasco at the Flying lesson, a sort of armed truce prevailed between the various groups involved. Gryffindor First Years didn't unduly provoke Slytherin First Years, partially due to Harry's constant exertions. Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, Parkinson, and Bulstrode tried not to provoke either Gryffindor, or the rapidly coalescing entente of the rest of their Year's Slytherin students. As that bunch had enough on their hands watching out for their dorm mates they avoided inter-house provocations also. Hermione wondered which historical analog was most appropriate: the post-Napoleonic balance of power, the run up to the Great War, or perhaps some version of the Cold War that seemed to be dying out in the Muggle world beyond their little pressure cooker in the Scottish Highlands.

Some upper Year students were making book on when the next explosion would take place, and its composition. Would there be a Gryffindor/Slytherin main event, as the divided House of Snakes tried to find common ground in a united war front? Would there be an in-house intestine conflict breaking out in Slytherin, with side bets on whether there would be rearrangements of sleeping arrangements. Would the upper Years join in? Each situation had its backers and its odds. Neville was in for 2 Galleons on the Snakes breaking out in internal guerilla warfare. Ron cursed his poverty that kept him from placing some gold down on a united front in Slytherin, based on an all out war with Hufflepuff. The odds for that outcome were simply too good for him to pass up happily.

When the next Flying lesson started… thankfully not from the point where brooms had to be introduced… the Gryffindors took to flying in pairs, with pairs of pairs watching each others' backs. Harry had got that from a picture called _The Battle of Britain_ he had managed to catch at the Dursleys on television. Vernon had had a grandfather in the RAF, back in the day, and it was an important enough family landmark that on Remembrance Day he had always had the family watch the classic film. It was, for him, just another little way to show his freak nephew how brave, skilled and all-round wonderful "regular people" were. Actually, Harry had quite enjoyed the movie, and had no problem taking away from it little lessons that now finally became useful when he could marshal his own flying squadrons.

The Slytherins flew in two irregular, blobby formations that defied a simple description beyond the imprecise technical term "furball." As each group had riders of varying levels of skill, courage, and magical empathy for their mounts; after a few moments near collisions started occurring, angry words were exchanged, their putative instructor ignored, and finally the first hex of the day discharged. The Gryffindors spiraled higher and higher to get above the fray, and be in the best attack position to pick off any stragglers. They waited for the opportune moment to settle all their grievances and prejudices.

They waited in vain. Before that opportune moment occurred, the Heads of both Slytherin and Gryffindor had shot out (as fast as their own brooms could manage, after being neglected for years or even decades) to put down the expected bit of student rebellion. While it took Professor Snape several minutes (and 100 points) to get the anarchy subdued, Professor McGonagall was almost pleased (and so took off only 50 points from Gryffindor) to find her responsibilities, perhaps ignoring their instructor, but at least not involved in actual combat with anyone.

Several notable outcomes resulted from the day's instruction: For the rest of the term, Slytherin First Years were only allowed out of their Dungeon after dinner in pairs, and if attended to by a prefect, and on approved Library research. Hermione Granger became sure she had discovered the reason she had been instructed to support Harry Potter; he was born to create order out of chaos. Flying Instructor Rolanda Hooch retired early (barely 90 years old!), citing a desire to cultivate earthworms or other low-lying creatures. As a result, instruction in flying was put on abeyance for the year, or at least until a new Instructor could be induced to risk their life and sanity at Hogwarts.

A united front of the Captains of the various House Quidditch Teams were able to successfully plead their case that the members of the current First Year not be banned for life from Quidditch, as it would ruin the program for everyone. It was a narrow decision, and managed to become the first entry about this year's new students in the self-updating copies of _**Hogwarts: A History**_**.** Few groups had ever managed to make their mark so quickly, and as indelibly as this year's, and in certain quarters (Gryffindor Third Year Boys' Dorm, for example) a great degree of envy was expressed.

Ω

Hermione somehow denied herself the full expression of her pleasure at no longer having the opportunity to soar at a great height above the ground at immense speeds without either safety belt or parachute. It was hard, but she refused to publicly celebrate this turn of events. After all, some of her best friends were insane enough to enjoy broom based transportation. The fact that they all now had more time for substantive school work (or goofing off) was only admitted by three members of her Gryffindor Year. She respected their strength of character, and admitted it to them that Saturday night when two of them, Misses Patil and Brown, made their first attempt at getting Hermione's hair under control. In the event, a failure, but Gryffs have a fierce determination, and the young ladies promised that further attempts would be made.

Back home the senior Grangers read her biweekly letters with confusion, amusement, and deep interest. They were glad that their daughter had quickly found friends, and had seemingly escaped the social isolation of her previous school. But having received word of the War in the Air they had to wonder if their girl was at a magical (and co-educational) version of fabled St. Trinian's, whose motto "Strike first, Strike hard" had inspired generations of juvenile delinquents. They also wondered if it might not be wise, after all, to invest in a Post Owl as the transfer fees charged for getting their communications from the Muggle mail to the Magical one, and back again, were certainly starting to add up.

Ω

Slowly, the detentions imposed in the first week of the Term were worked off. Rooms that even the School House-Elves had neglected for decades were gone through with broom (non-flying), mop, and bucket. The marking safety-boundary stones that defined where the unpleasantly thorny brambles became the official Forbidden Forest were freshly whitewashed and cleared around. And Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter had many long talks, and not a few arguments, as they hung up together in Filch's best maintained torture chamber (he being an eternal optimist on the likelihood that he would someday soon get a chance to use some of his wonderful toys). Despite the final end to those detentions (a certain number of more normally gained ones also occurred, of course), the First Years of both the affected Houses remained in the bad books of the respectable elements of those Houses, who felt that they would have to kiss the House Cup goodbye for the year. The Staff of Hogwarts imagined that they had finally regained control of events.

Ω

"What do you think?" asked Hermione Granger, as she turned around to let the assembled boys of Gryffindor House (except for the Third and above years who were off on a Hogsmeade Weekend Sunday, and the Second Years who were very conscious of their need not to be seen unnecessarily in the company of the childish and currently pariah Firsties) examine the latest iteration of a treatment for her wild hair. To her left the two artistes who had worked with various fluids and charms waited with bated breath.

"Better."

"Definitely more sheen."

"All right, I suppose."

"Smooth; use a potion on that?"

"I think my sister might need to use something like that. But it still needs some work."

Parvati and Lavender nodded to each other. Except for the ignorant "All right, I suppose." of Seamus Finnegan, the reactions were all that could be expected, and more, coming from a bunch of boys. There were some refinements that would have to be done, but still a warm glow filled them. They had been willing to attempt the impossible: make Hermione's hair look presentable. And they had triumphed! They caught Hermione flashing them a strong thumbs up, then they waved, and went back up to their room to clean up the bowls, clippings, and scattered paraphernalia. Seamus and Dean moved toward a corner, visions of winning at Gobstones dancing in their eyes. Harry and Ron had already made their turn to follow, when they were grabbed by the best coiffed person left in the room. Neville let loose a sigh of long suffering, his absolute best expression lately. Hermione had finally caught them all, and they were going to be involved in the next item on her mental agenda.

"I've noticed that we've each and all been getting differing results doing charms. Ones that we all really know, and shouldn't end up looking so different. So-" Hermione was interrupted by Ron right then, hoping to have at least a Sunday without a lecture.

"Everybody knows that different Wizards have different amounts of power… ah, Witches too, of course!" He had no desire to anger the girl who had devoted much time, and had developed skill in the careful placement of Stinging Hexes. Well done, on the sly, that talent had kept him from falling asleep in several DADA classes, and once in Astronomy. She was reasonable though, he admitted; she never interrupted a nap in History of Magic.

"Of course," she agreed, "but I remember that the wand seller mentioned my wand was especially good for certain things. I was too excited at the time to really pay attention. I mean… getting my wand! I've done a bit of research with my dorm mates, and to the extent they remember what was said their wands seem to act predictably in tune. And now I'm curious; do you remember what your wands are best for? Harry?"

He closed his eyes for a moment, to concentrate, and then shook his head.

"Ollivander, he had trouble matching me, everything either did nothing or… acted oddly. Finally gave me the one I've got: Holly and Phoenix feather, eleven inches and supple, as opposed to swishy, or I guess, limp. Never much mentioned if it was good for charms, hexes, or cleaning the wax out of my ears. He must have given you special treatment, Hermione. I bet you gave him your Number Four Stare, or something."

As her piercing gaze fell on Neville, he made a small, involuntary twitch, but there was nowhere to escape from her; dinner wasn't for another hour, and he had heard her mention that she had learned the most useful unlocking charm. Now his dorm room was no longer safe, and he had no desire to retreat to the cold and sterile sanctity of the Boys Lav. In a small, obedient, voice he answered her.

"Never really went to old Ollivander; wand's m'father's. He was an Auror, a good one, so I expect it was an all-rounder. An Auror has to be able to handle all sorts of situations."

"And mine was my brother Charlie's. He's a Dragon Wrangler now, so it must be a good one, if he learned on it," said Ron. Then he saw that she had opened a wire-bound notebook, barely able to be fitted into a robe pocket. What was worse, she easily flipped it to a set of pages with little notes scribbled around the papers' margins, and huge open spaces for her testing results to be filled in. He knew he would not escape quickly this time as she got involved in creating her questionnaire or answer sheet.

"Ron, do a Lumos please, then concentrate and do one even brighter," Hermione asked.

Shrugging, Ron complied, first a dullish, one candlepower version, then, with a bit of a grunt, something almost twice as bright. He was a little startled at that, he had never tried to get more than the minimum out of a spell successful enough to get the Professor contented and ready to move on to helping the next student. Maybe he did have more in him than he thought.

Hermione made her notes: _RW with RW… 2-3_

"Harry," she asked, "give a go."

His first level attempt beat Ron's by a good margin. "Total effort now!" Hermione encouraged.

The flash caused a number of angry yells from a couple of Seconds who were trying to achieve a little privacy in a corner away from most public attention.

_HP with HP… 4-12_

_HG with HG… 3-7_

_NL with NL… 1-1_

"Well, glad that's over," said a mortified Neville Longbottom, who had just had every one of his fears about his own talents and value as a wizard confirmed. "Let's all go down to the Lake and throw bread to the Squid."

"No, time for the switch." Hermione said, putting her hand out in front of Harry. He took a moment considering her palm, mentally agreed that her hand was clean enough, sighed, and put his wand in it.

_HG with HP… 2-5_

Hermione panted a little, she had been really trying, and feeling, for the first time, her oft remarked-on magical core actually heat up. She passed the wand to Ron. Inspired by his earlier attempts he put more attention into the spell than he generally did in class.

_RW with HP… 2-3_

A little disappointed, he passed it on to Neville.

_NL with HP… 2-5_

"Bloody hell," Neville said. "Bloody hell."

After that Neville's wand was passed around the circle for testing.

_RW with NL… 1-1_

_HP with NL… 1-2_

_HG with NL…1-1_

"Bloody hell," Ron said, endorsing Neville's earlier comment. "Your wand's a dud, Nev."

A speculative look came over Neville's face. His results seemed all over the place. Could it be…?

The four of them were latish getting to dinner; Hermione and Harry were chattering away, and speculating on the theory and practice of wandcrafting. Neville and Ron were withdrawn and silent. Several spells had been attempted, and, in general, the results had been fairly consistent as first Ron's and then Hermione's wands had been given their chance.

Neville had performed better with the others' wands than his own. Not always a great deal, but always noticeably.

Ron had done noticeably better with Hermione's wand than his own and nearly as well with Harry's. He would have to do the unthinkable. Write a letter. To Charlie, and ask if there was anything peculiar about his passed-on wand; any quirks or abnormalities. He'd have to include a line asking Charlie not to tell Mum, or she'd start expecting him to start writing her every week, or some such foolishness.

Ω

Hermione Granger knocked with uncharacteristic timidity on the door to Professor McGonagall's office. As one of the Firsties involved, however tangentially, with the War in the Air, Hermione knew that she wasn't currently one of her House Head's most favorite people. Still, this had to be called an educational matter of great importance, at least as far as Neville and Ron were concerned. At the command of "Enter" that came out muffled as it went through the thick oak door, she turned the handle and entered, for the first time, McGonagall's inner sanctum.

The first thing that struck her was the scores of lamps, hanging from the ceiling, on the tables, stuck on many of the book shelves, and on the sconces sticking out of the walls. Evidently the Transfiguration Professor needed the light to properly enjoy the hundreds of photographs, moving and still, of past Gryffindor students that occupied every visible bit of area on the walls, tables, and shelves. Hermione stepped onto the carpet runner, and advanced a good twelve yards, until she was standing in front of the massive dark wood desk, raised on a dais, carved with enough creatures with stingers, fangs, and claws that a good-sized bestiary could be made just from copying the front face of it. There was a large, pre-renaissance style chair at side of the desk, for welcome visitors. Hermione was not invited to occupy it.

On the wall behind the teacher there was etching of a typical Scottish Wizarding pastoral scene; deer in flight, pheasant on the rise, Lairds making their daily catch of ghillies. McGonagall looked at the girl, her face no more yielding than the petrified Ironwood of the desk, and waited…

Finally Professor McGonagall, having failed to out endure her, asked, "And what may I do for you, Miss Granger?" Her tone was less than warm.

Hermione wasn't sure whether to bow, salute, or curtsey, so she launched right into her piece; it was either that or flee in blubbering shame.

"M… Madam Professor, the boys and I were playing around with our wands… you know, doing spells, trying out each other's wands, and…" at that, Hermione pulled out her notebook and flipped it to the page of results, then placed it neatly onto the clean desktop. "We were just doing simple things like Lumos, and the Tickling Charm, and Wingardium, and such.

"So we collected some data on how well we did with each other's wands, and there was this oddity… "

Professor McGonagall seemed to be having some difficulty breathing, and her usual pale and somewhat freckled face was becoming quite scarlet throughout.

"… that Neville's and Ron's wands were really not doing anything much for any of us, but Harry's and my wands were actually pretty useable for all. And I wondered if you could tell us how we could, you know; test Nev's and Ron's to see if they were working right or something… "

Professor McGonagall finally blinked; her face had now gone pale, unnaturally pale. She ground out, between clenched teeth: "Miss Granger, different people have different natural tendencies, as do wands. Also different rates of biological maturation. Accordingly, differing in success at things is only to be expected, it will all even out, I'm sure."

"But Professor, nobody could get Neville's –"

"Miss Granger! You have been told!"

A moment passed, and then McGonagall began to speak in a more modulated tone of voice.

"Miss Granger, it is only to be expected that with so many young people here, just entering into their adolescence and their physical prime, that a certain degree of… experimentation might be expected. We try to be reasonable about that, the Infirmary is well prepared to prevent any unfortunate… outcomes to such experiments. We have even provided certain areas… never mind.

"But let me make it clear, Young Lady." Here McGonagall's voice had become harsh and strident again. "I do not hold with young witches either lending their wands to boys, or borrowing young wizards' wands, and risking the mingling and pollution of their pure Magical Cores! I do not care if so-called Progressives cite erroneous studies in the negative! It is improper, and will not be countenanced while I am Head of House, a Professor, or breathing!"

At a loss for a way to express her vehemence, she noticed the opened notebook on the desk, grabbed it, and threw it in Hermione's general direction. Hitting a free standing table it knocked over two framed photographs of past Gryffindor Quidditch stars, which fell to the stone floor.

Hermione turned, swooped to pick up her book, and ran from the room. The door opened of itself before she had got there. She thought of giving a suitable farewell cry as she left. Perhaps, "You're horrid!" Or better still, "Drop dead, bitch!" But she realized quickly enough that saying that might only lead to her getting carried away and really telling the old bat what she thought of her.

In any case, she didn't want to be put on detention for the next several hundred-odd days until the end of term. In the end the door even managed to close itself before she had had a chance to properly slam it. Even that small pleasure was taken from her. It wasn't fair, just not fair.

Ω

It was a major project that evening for the girls of her room to get her to tell them why she had been alternately silent and unresponsive as a rock and spluttering with incoherent rage since being seen to have left the Head of House's office. At last the persistent nagging of her friends, and being bribed from an unexpected box of chocolates, proved too much to resist. Afterwards, a serious discussion took place until past all normal bedtimes.

Lavender: "So's McG says if one of us fools around and gets a bun-"

Kandice: "The Infirmary is ready and willing to quietly-"

Parvati: "'Deal' with the situation."

Hermione protested, not very strongly, "She didn't say that in so many words."

Parvati: "So, Lavender, you're thinking of going for a Mediwitch, do you think you could-"

Fay: "Stuff like that's going to be important to know in a few years."

All eyes turned to her.

Parvati: "Planning ahead, are we?"

Fay gave her the best glare she could manage before giggling. "You've got to admit that Finnegan's got some nice moves. A girl should be prepared."

Lavender: "And it almost sounds like, from all those broom closets and the Astronomy Tower jokes, that the Staff doesn't really expect the Prefects to actually catch all the couples. It's more like a game, maybe?"

Hermione: "The wands, though. What was that all about?"

Fay: "Well, I heard Great-Grandmother tell my older sister… she was trying to find out if Tessi had a boyfriend, the old gossip. Anyway, Great-Grandma said something like it's better to be touched in… you know, her Places, than to have a boy get his hand on her wand. But now that I'm thinking about it, she may have really been more about having Tessi giving her a chance to have another 'Great' added to her title, her being that way. Great-Grandmother Gytha is very… earthy, sometimes."

Parvati: "They say that a husband and wife in a good marriage can use each other's wands without any trouble at all."

Kandice: "Or maybe they just don't mind having their magic mixed."

Lavender: "That's just a story; wands can't change their nature, and they can't change yours, either!"

Hermione: "But who'd really know?"

Fay: "I'll write Great-Grandmother Gytha, she'll know."

Parvati: "My mum has some good contacts; she'll be able to tell us."

Lavender: "Matron Pomfrey should know; I doubt there's much stuff like that she hasn't seen."

Kandice: "I should have just gone into Ravenclaw after all; I'll hit the Library tomorrow."

Hermione: "I think I know just the man to write to."

Ω

While she was waiting for all the varied answers to be gathered, Hermione felt obligated to bring up the very faint, almost completely unlikely, really miniscule, possibility of magical mingling to the boys. They accepted the news, each in their own particular fashion.

Ron ran to the bathroom to do an immediate check that nothing was… missing, or diminished.

Neville sat silently for a moment, shook his head, and said, "I don't think it works that way."

Harry laughed, then suggested that, just in case, they not start exchanging wands, just as they hadn't for the month before the experiment and the weeks since.

Slowly the results came in: Great-Grandmother Gytha remembered stories like that from her youth, but couldn't remember any actual examples of hermaphrodite magic.

Matron Pomfrey shook her head and sighed, claiming it was a rumor that never died.

The Library was unhelpful.

Parvati's mother reaffirmed married cross-wand use, but said it might just be the result of people getting familiar with each others, and each others' wands, quirks. She also sent a box with dozens of fried, sugar glazed, and utterly delightful Indian pastries. Magical preservation ensured they were fresh for the day and a half they lasted.

Garrick Ollivander's reply was simple denial that the old hag's tale had any basis in fact. He also expressed a desire to take a look at Neville's wand, if they ever got a chance to drop in. It seemed, he said, to be one of the most negative conflict of affinities between wand and user that he had ever heard of.

When she told Neville about it he started to say something, then he just sighed and turned away. Puzzled, Hermione let him go. Later that day, in a deserted corridor, between classes, she asked Harry what was going on; maybe a boy could understand a boy's strange behavior.

"Hermione, you've got two parents. Nev, he lives with his grandmother; you ever wonder why? He uses his father's wand… why isn't his father using it? If your parents were gone, wouldn't you want to hang on to whatever you could of them? Think!

"If I had something of my parents… anything… I'd keep it, use it, no matter what. Anything."

With that he reached out and squeezed her shoulder, and then walked away. She felt very cold, and lonely, and stupid. She hadn't thought of the boys really being people, with a past, and needs, and scars on their souls. Stupid Granger, had just dashed in again, mouth blazing away, and hadn't realized all the casualties would be on her own side.

Ω

It was during the Halloween Feast, after the main course, and just before the desserts were due to appear, that it happened.

Hermione had tried to be good, to avoid the dangers of sugars, and to stay on the straight and narrow. She had thought it would be enough to just restrain herself, and not preach her parents' doctrine of the avoidance of dental caries to others, not to be a nag and a pain. But the House-Elves refused to find artificial sweeteners to use in their creations, and after the arrival of Parvati's comfort package from home Hermione couldn't resist trying just a bite, to prove to herself that she could take it or leave it alone. She couldn't. Chocolate cake and fruit tarts were her downfall. She worked off the calories with magic use, and regular swimming in the Black Lake (while well charmed for warmth), and brushed like no one's business, but she had to admit a failure of character. And the worst was that she didn't really regret her fall from grace.

But, in any case, it was during the Halloween feast, with the Great Hall decorated with mid-air pumpkins and the like, just before the Elves cleared off the remains of the main course and the desserts made their welcome appearance, that Professor Quirrell burst into the Hall and declared the invasion of the safest place in Britain by a Troll. At once, from the Professor's table, the Headmaster sent orders for the students to return to their dorms, escorted by the Prefects of their Houses. Ron's spluttering protest was squashed without mercy, and their group was shepherded away. When Hermione commented, during the journey, that safety was more important than just gorging a bit more, he replied, in a cold voice.

"First, I got a listing from George of what the desserts were going to be… he's friendly with the House-Elves, is always going to the kitchens and cadging a few extras. They love that. And the Elves outdid themselves, he said. So I expect they'll be right ticked off that no-one will get to enjoy their work. So it's not just us growing boys who's suffering."

At that he gave a little yelp and hop; as Hermione's Stinging Hex touched him. She had become good enough to do them wandless lately, making her a greater danger than ever to those who engaged in sexist language.

He continued anyway. "And second, back in the Hall we have all the Prefects gathered, and a limited number of doors to watch. If we had stayed there all the Professors could have been put into search teams to find the Troll, while nobody would have to walk through the corridors in a long line protected only by two or three slightly older students, while the Staff sits around and discusses things over a glass or two of Madeira before getting around to doing the obvious."

Hermione sighed, "Point, game, and match for Weasley. I'll play you three games of Wizard's Chess to make up for the Hex. Deal?"

He nodded as they approached the Gryffindor Tower, unmolested. It wasn't often he was able to score one on her, but she was always willing to pay up when he came out on top. This time she had essentially given him a solid half-hour of playing time to have fun. None of the other Firsties gave as good a game, and his own brothers had long avoided playing with him and suffering the indignity of losing to Ron of all people!

It was when they had finished their last game, with the score of the little tournament three-nil, that they both didn't see the man who was there. Or at least who opened the Common Room door and exited the Tower. Ron bolted up, eager to follow him, but Hermione held him back with the pointed question of how would he know which way he went? They decided to check with their roommates, to see if anyone else had seen anything like this before. Was it another, less annoying poltergeist than Peeves? A transparent ghost? Or someone under a Disillusionment Charm?

In the end they were able to find and interrogate all the upper Years that they knew, and all of their own, except Harry, who seemed to have… become invisible. Or at least very absent. Or both. To deal with this situation a plan was formed, and a dedicated schedule of Watchers instituted.

Ω

It was Lavender Brown, who wasn't complaining at what friends asked you to do, and Fred Weasley, who was the reason she wasn't complaining, that saw the door open at around 1:30 in the morning, and no one come in. The querulous voice of the Fat Lady had stirred them from their torpor as the door to the Common Room opened. Lavender had been contemplating cute redheads, upper classmen, and the possibility that they wouldn't be already claimed when they realized a girl two years younger could be very interesting. He, on the other hand, was wondering sadly on the terrible charisma he seemed to have with Firsty girls; first Granger and now Brown. Even his own brother, Ron, encouraged them it seemed. He had been the one to drag (evidently at one of their urgings) him for this thankless task. George was having a field day about that, when he wasn't wondering why he wasn't getting anywhere with Angelina, or trying to figure out how the girl Firsties always seemed to know which was Fred and which was George.

They had had a fine time convincing the House-Elf that was in charge of cleaning the Gryffindor Common Room not to clean up the fine layer of ash that the fireplace had provided as material for the trap that was now being sprung. A rough outline like a string, the ends held a shoulder width's apart, was moving through the grey ash. Fred's automatic casting of a Body Bind was snapped off with all the speed of a talented Quidditch player. It was aimed with all the skill of the best Beater Hogwarts had seen in years, just two feet up from where the ashes were being disturbed. A moment later a great mass of the ash was lifted up into the air by the impact of a body falling prone onto the ground. The backs of someone's legs became visible, from the shoes to the knees. Fred was up and at the immobilized interloper in a flash, hauling him out of the way. There was probably hardly any damage to the still mostly-invisible person he hauled over to one of the couches in the room. Lavender was up and running to wake up the others. Per their agreement Fred called out "House-Elf Twiggy!"

As he heard the First Year dorm rooms being alerted, Fred found the edge of what was obviously an invisibility cloak, and began to pull it up and off the person inside. Meanwhile Twiggy (not to be confused with Macci, who did the bathrooms and stairs, or Bliggi, who was the specialist in bed chambers) appeared and began to eliminate the ash that had been spread over much of the entranceway area of the room. It was doing an odd thing, for a House-Elf; it was muttering that now it could finally get some sleep, if the Young Masters didn't want it to polish the ceiling, blindfolded and upside down.

Fred wasn't completely surprised that when the cloak was completely off and a rigid Harry Potter was revealed.

"Hope you didn't get too bruised, falling down, Harry. But that's the luck of the draw, when you go all Unseen Prowler; no one knows where you are, and things happen. In fact, I had a great-uncle who Disillusioned himself and went to have some fun with a Muggle farmer; got himself run over by a cow-catcher or something when the farmer didn't see him in time to stop. Oh, here's the guys!"

The entire population of the Girl's First Year dorm had come down… they'd been up doing each other's toenails anyway while waiting from Lavender to come up and Hermione to take the long Graveyard Shift. From the Boys section only Neville and Ron came down. Seamus wasn't any use the next day without his 10 hours, and Dean hadn't gotten the alert. He had taken a series of potions to deal with a bad cold that had totally knocked him out. Fred sighed, evidently she hadn't risked going up to the Third Year Boys' room, and that meant he'd have to tell George all about things in the morning.

Hermione was staring at the rigid Potter, her eyes fiery. As she drew in her breath to begin her denunciation of someone so thoughtless as to have come to school with a wonderful thing like an invisibility cloak (Lavender had been quick with her alert, but thorough), and not tell his best friends, and who was capable of going out into the Troll plagued corridors of their school alone, and not let those self-same friends come along to help if he got in trouble… Ron put his forefinger up to her lips.

"Less hands up," Ron said.

"Nggh-" came out through Hermione's closed lips; that grunt the minimum sound she could make, while trying to suppress all of the things she had been about to say. Ron had got her balanced again. Finally she gasped out in a small voice, "Weasley scores again." He smirked.

"Finite." Fred said, and Harry turned from a rigid board, arms hard against his side and legs locked together, into a far more cooked-spaghetti-like posture.

"Ow!" came from Harry, followed by, "You could have been a little more careful about how you dragged me here. Did you have to knock into every table and chair on the way?"

"Unseen Prowlers have to take what they can get," Fred replied heartlessly. Lavender thought of how tough and manly that sounded.

Neville picked up… something that made parts of his fingers seem to disappear. "Give. From the top. All the way to the present."

Looking at all those around him, with no gap in their ring to escape through, Harry decided to come clean.

"When we got back from the Feast, while you were down here all talking, I went up to the room, to get my stuff and brush my teeth. I mean, might as well, the fun was over for the night, and Hermione always does that sniff-thing in the mornings when we go to breakfast."

Miss Granger blushed as the others turned their gazes to her. And she had thought she had been so subtle…

"Well, "Harry continued, "there was this box on my bed with a letter on top of it. Said, and I may quote," he pulled a tri-folded piece of parchment out of an inside pocket of his robe, and read from it, "'This belonged to your Father, use it wisely.' I opened the box, but there seemed nothing in it, but you know how it is, I sort of just stirred my hand in and felt something. Didn't take long to figure out what it was.

"Well," he repeated, "who wouldn't put on their family's Invisibility Cloak and go see how the professors were dealing with a Troll in the Castle?"

There was a murmur of agreement from all those gathered.

"And it would be safe as houses, I couldn't be seen, and I'm wearing trainers, so no noise."

"Suppose it smelled you?" asked Parvati.

"Took a shower this morning. Like I said, safe as houses. Learned a bit too. Did you know that Quirrell was supposed to be an expert on Trolls?"

"Shouldn't he have said what type it was then, back at the Feast?" asked Kandice. "People with expert knowledge always try to show it off with being persnickety about names." Her eyes shot to Parvati.

"Give it up, K. You'll just have to deal with being the only colour-blind girl in Hogwarts. And I think putting red highlights into Hermione's hair was brilliant!" Lavender retorted.

Neville short-circuited the approaching storm. "If he's a Troll expert, why'd he get all faint? I mean, the DADA teacher should have been able to do better than that, shouldn't he?"

"Those who can, do. Those who can only talk about it, teach?" Fred contributed.

"Anywaaay… " Harry broke in with his story again, "by the time I got to where the roaring was Sinistra and Vector had the thing under control. They'd put this spell on it, don't know the name, but there was a ball of darkness right around its head. It was sitting down and, I swear, it was crying. There were some bashed up suits of armor, and a picture knocked off the wall. They must have played some rough blind man's bluff with it, 'cause it was tame as anything when the Headmaster showed up a few minutes later. They took the Darkness off it, and he led it right out the back door, and pointed it to the Forbidden Forest. It took off running.

"Wonder how it ended up in the Dungeons, though."

That puzzled all of them; only Fred seemed to have a glimmer of an idea, and he wasn't talking. The next half hour was spent on trying on the invisibility cloak and doing spooky voices. Harry, for a promise of secrecy (to the extent something known by nine can be a secret. Well, ten. If Fred knew, George was a given to be told) promised to consider lending it to the cabal if they had a convincing case for needing it. Then it was to bed, after the most memorable Halloween feast even the most jaded witch or wizard present could remember.

Ω

"I'm not really that kind of a girl. I'm not really that kind of a girl," Hermione Granger kept on saying to herself. But she knew she was lying. She was that kind of a girl; she had thought it up, and somehow she was going to do it. But she needed some help; she'd never done anything like it before, and she didn't want to either corrupt or incriminate the innocent. So her roommates were out. Neville was obviously excluded. If she tried to get Ron into it, Harry would end up knowing, and helping. And it wouldn't really be doing a very good job of "H Potter trainhelpalways" if they were caught and he was expelled from Hogwarts in disgrace. She could think of only one place to go for the needed expertise, the needed daring, and disrespect for all decency. She would have to get more deeply involved with one (or more) of the tallest non-prig redheads in Gryffindor, and accept the consequences. Luckily, she had something up her sleeve, an earnest of her value. She was due to make a payment; it should prove her worth.

It was getting toward evening when she was able to isolate one of her potential targets out on one of the battlements of the castle, gazing off in the general direction of Hogsmeade, and no doubt planning the moral ruin of Angelina Johnson that weekend. Hermione sidled up to him and gave a subdued "Hi, George. Got a moment?"

"Cripes! Where the hell did you come from?'

Finally abandoning his pride he asked the question that had been bothering him for over a month.

"And how do you know I'm not Fred? I'll get George for you, if you're becoming an unfaithful little flirt, after all we've been to each other, if that's what you want."

"Angelina Johnson; you blush when you think about her, easy as pie to spot you."

"How did you know I was thinking of the divine Angelina? Oh… ah… yes, perhaps I am George, after all. But how did you know I was thinking of her?"

"George, George, George. I'm a witch. We know things like that. Anyways, I've finished a good amount of the Potion. I think we should spot for each other when we take it, just in case… just in case. If you find it works right, I might have a job for you, a prank of virtue that you can think of as a gold star in your secret album of pranks."

"Potion, right. Witches know what we're thinking? Pull the other one! I don't get slapped half enough for that to be true. Tonight, we'll meet up in the Common Room after dinner, find a quiet classroom, and discover our inner Beasts. How is this thing supposed to work; we do a sudden flash to our other form, and then have to discover how to do it on purpose?"

"No, we see the world for a while as our animal form would, doing things the animal does. So, you'll probably see yourself chewing your cud or something, and I'll look out over the wide savannas I control as Queen of the Beasts. Something like that. Gotta go now!" And she slipped away.

She'd never reveal the witches' secret of how the girls of Gryffindor knew which Weasley was which. It involved Fay's knowledge of how to manipulate the laundry-doing House-Elves, Hermione making up a batch of itching powder, and Lavender having access to some of the less sensitive records from the times she helped out in the Infirmary. One itched, one didn't, one was positively identified by record as Fred Weasley. George Weasley had a location tag (a minor spell, the other half of the' Point Me' Hermione had been using for months), put on him by Kandice (who hated to be left out), and each of the girls had learned how to perceive the Charm's pull. The pleasure of continually Pranking the Pranksters of Hogwarts was a gift that kept on giving.

She'd put forward her proposition tonight, to both of them. They'd have located a secure spot; it would be safer that way. She just hoped it wouldn't cost her more than she could afford to pay. Well, she was committed now; the die was cast, the Rubicon was crossed, and the cliché was spoken. That she was that sort of girl would be out in the open, a scheming and manipulative witch. She could no longer deny it.


	5. Chapter 5

I do not own, or receive any benefit, from the Harry Potter properties.

Palimpsest

The Evil Within: Chapter 5

By Larry Huss

She was slinking about, hidden and illegally, with all the caution of a hardened felon. She loved it. The only trouble was it was very crowded under the Invisibility Cloak she had borrowed from Harry, since he had insisted on being borrowed as well. She supposed that if she was of romantic nature she'd have been half-fainting with joy at the situation, but Hermione Jean Granger was a hard-headed and practical girl on her way to discover what animal she would be if she could become an animal. And walking in step was proving awkward to do, and they were bumping into each other. Which if she was of a romantic nature…

At last they were able to find the door to the classroom the Weasley twins were using this week as the headquarters for their reign of titillation. The Pranksters switched their working lair frequently, to confuse their (often imaginary) pursuers. A Prankster couldn't be too careful, not in a world as filled with spoilsports as Filch and Snape. As the two younger students entered they saw one of them (it was Fred, as Hermione knew), putting some scroll away into one of the secret pockets he had sewn into his robe. He had recommended that she prepare some of the same if she wanted to have an enjoyable time in the Profession, and had ended up having to show the not-very-domestic Hermione how to measure and actually affix the concealed storage areas and hide the entrances.

After the door was properly closed George asked, "Harry, I was wondering-"

"Certainly, how much is it worth to you?" Harry replied. He had been talking with Ron enough to know how to deal with the older Weasleys.

Uncomfortable with the speed of thought of his young mar… acquaintance, George became silent and contemplated getting some emotionally satisfying vengeance at his too-loyal-to-his-friends younger brother. Even a few weeks earlier Harry would have been so much easier to manipulate; the source of his sophistication was obvious.

"Do you have it?" Fred asked.

"Enough, and Harry's in. He wouldn't let me use the cloak otherwise," Hermione replied.

"Reasonable. Well, you see the chairs. And, of course, our Throne of Metamorphosis. We do this one at a time, with the victim," here he smiled, "tied down so they don't do themselves any harm. M'brother and me will go first, as we're older and should have known better. In case anything goes wrong one of us will go get help, and the others will all disappear, and won't ever have been here. It'll take about half-an-hour I figure for each testing. So let's get started; I want to take a shower before getting to sleep tonight."

With that Fred sat down in… and George and Harry secured him to… the heavy, high-backed 'Throne.' George kept a strong grip on the back, as Hermione pulled out the flask of the Potion, and a measuring beaker. Carefully pouring the dose she gave it to the red-head, who made a grimace at the taste. And then they waited.

Not for too long; soon Fred's face got a wide smile, and he began sniffing the air rapidly and deeply. Hermione wasn't sure what he was perceiving himself as, but she had the strongest urge to scratch him behind the ear. In the space of a few moments his odd behavior started to disappear, and his brother quickly untied him, and asked the obvious question: "What were you, Fred?"

Only to find that while the gross motor functions were operable, the more delicate mental and physical control needed to get an intelligible word out were not. "Arrhiag. Whoograg."

Still, he seemed about as human as ever, and George eagerly seated himself in the chair. Harry tied him with all due security, and perhaps just a trifle more, just in case. Hermione, confident now in the knowledge that she had the dosage right, gave George his dram of revelation. George waited, as Fred slowly got back his speech, for the rush of insight or vision, or whatever let one know their animal form. George waited, as the hourglass poured its sands, and was flipped over. He practiced talking in non-human tones, as best he could: "Can you understand me know? How about now?" Finally Fred began to untie him, and spoke.

"Brother, I'm afraid your Animagus form is that of a red-headed man."

"I'm your damned identical twin brother! If you have a form, and what is it if I may ask, I must too!"

"Guys, you're not really identical." Harry politely broke in.

Three heads turned to him. Despite getting a little flustered he continued.

"Your hair, you know, how it comes out in a sort of spiral. Fred goes right and George goes left. If Hermione wasn't here I could tell you another way."

"Why can't you say it while I'm here?" Miss Granger demanded.

Both brothers had come to the same conclusion and did their normal simultaneous delivery: "It's a guy thing."

"What's a guy thing? What?" came the outraged cry.

Quick-witted George had meanwhile dredged up a memory of a more suitable topic to discuss in front of a young woman of tender and innocent years. "Remember, Fred, back when we were learning to write? You used to pick up the quill with your left hand, and I'd do it with my right. Until we practiced enough to be ambidextrous."

His brother nodded, stunned by the revelations they were getting. Meanwhile, Hermione was thinking furiously on several levels. How had Harry (of all people!) been the one to notice the hair thing? What was the thing she shouldn't be told. Again, how was it that Harry would know… oh. The boys all used a large gang-shower room. So… give Potter this one too, she'd really rather not have worked out this one in mixed company. Hermione started to blush.

"So… am I the evil twin?" Asked two voices at once.

"I'll back you to the end, Brother-" at which point two hands shot out to cover two mouths. Sometimes their well trained act could even annoy each other.

"So, you're like mirror images, sort of," Harry went on happily, now that he'd figured out what ambidextrous was.

'Damn' thought Hermione, that was another one for Harry. Where did all this thinking stuff come from in him? Sometimes he said things that just didn't make sense coming from Mr. Nice-But-Spoiled-Harry-Potter-Aristocrat. Still, it was time that they got back on topic.

"Let's get moving, or we'll be here all night. Harry, while the Twins figure out who's the evil one, and how could anyone ever tell, I wonder, you tie me up and give me the Potion. You've seen how much is needed."

As she moved to the chair George began to say "Kink-" only to be silenced by Fred's warning glance.

Almost as soon as she tasted the lemony flavored Potion, and swallowed it with a gulp, the room she was in started to turn foggy. Soon she was somehow besides a briskly moving stream. Her long-fingered dark hands were dipping a prawn-thing into the water, before bringing it up to her mouth for a satisfying crunch of the shell, and the sweet taste of the fresh meat inside. Finishing the canapé she navigated by the light of the Moon to the base of a tree. There were some fresh fragments of eggshell there, she could smell how fresh. No blood on them, good. She began to climb… and with a sigh of disappointment she slowly came back through the mist, and was only a girl tied to a chair. She could almost cry; she'd never been so alive before.

Reluctantly, she gave her place to Harry; the Twins were still arguing in half-sentences, and she didn't want to get between them. Once he had his dose of the potion, Harry was different, of course. He seemed to go under well enough, and then she had to call out to the now venting Twins.

"Fred, George, shut up and help me with this!"

The chair, and occupant, were slowly rising from the floor, with her weight still attached. The two older students put their differences aside to grab it and add their weight before it hit the ceiling, or perhaps even flew out through a window.

All of them managed to be enough to settle it back down again, and after twenty minutes of so Harry was just himself again, grinning triumphantly. "I can fly!" was all that they could get out of him for several minutes.

Before they broke up for the night they pooled their impressions:

Fred had seen a bunch of small children, running all about madly. He'd rounded them all up (running on his four feet), and once in a bunch had herded them toward a nearby house. Fred the shepherd dog.

Hermione, fisher in the night, washer of her food, and tree climber, was tentatively identified as a raccoon. Clever and tough; she felt very happy at that.

Harry was a daylight flying bird. Not afraid of anything, but that might have said less about his species than it did about Harry. The thing with the chair had everyone baffled.

George… was George. And not very happy about it. Nothing anyone could do seemed to cheer him up. The Twins stayed behind while the invisible (the Cloak could never have covered them all) First Years made their way back to the Tower. The younger students heard earnest conversation behind them as they left.

Ω

"It was because if I'd flubbed it I could keep it quiet. Of course Mr. Potter dealing himself in sort of messed that up, but that was why. It's not like I knew I was going to get it right the first time."

Ron and Neville's frowns were enough of a comment on how well they were taking her explanation on why they weren't included in the previous night's expedition. It wasn't fair! She had been doing something against school rules, that could have been personally embarrassing, and might even be illegal (depending on how well you could believe George's interpretation of Wizarding Law and Regulation), and they were getting down on her. This was taking away the glow she'd gotten this morning when she'd told the girls about Harry's analysis of the Twins, which they'd confirmed that day at breakfast. The boys had tried to do things with their hair, but the natural growth patterns just wouldn't stay subdued. She'd have to ask Harry how he'd done that. She'd already sent out a Post Owl with some questions to her parents. And there were a host of questions that could only be answered up here, at Hogwarts.

Ω

She'd finally ditched the boys long enough to get a chance to put forward her main proposition to the Twins. Also that morning had come the confirmation by Owl Mail that Muggle Science had found that about one in four 'identical' twins were actually 'mirror' twins (left to right reversed copies of each other). It was perfectly normal, she explained to them, no reason to mope. The moping George just grunted at her. Now that he and Fred had started to look at things more differences were piling up; Fred was better at Transfiguration (of course!), while George had an edge in Astronomy and Charms. And so forth. Not that they both weren't, when they tried, good individually in most everything they cared to be, but still… It had been like being some sort of superman, being able to be in two places at one time. And now they had to acknowledge they were two separate people; far more separate, in fact, than they had ever imagined. After all these years it was quite a shock, and even if it was a bit more traumatic for George, it was affecting Fred also. He'd have gladly given up his chance at becoming an Animagus for a return to his previous state of union with his brother.

Still, both of them were still open for business, which for them would always be more the art of the prank than any material rewards they might eventually gain by having their dream of a store become real. They were, however, deeply concerned about the morality of her commission. Not the price; that was irrelevant to them.

"I mean, steal it, right?" said George.

"Well… or destroy it. So long as Nev doesn't get the blame. His grandmother gives him too much grief as it is to pile any more on him," Hermione said firmly.

"How about, you do it, and catch the Howler?" suggested Fred.

She was silent for a moment, then, "If needs be, if you think it's the best way to go. I'm scared, but I can do it for a friend."

"We'll be back to you, soon. Don't do anything rash, this has to be thought on carefully."

She nodded. She hoped that they could find some clever and anonymous way to get Neville's dud wand out of the way. They really were masters, she knew. But if someone had to get the ax…

After Miss Granger had left the two brothers thought together in silence for a little while.

"She doesn't see how easy it really is, with the season and all."

"Longbottom would have to agree; she's too much a Slytherin to see that."

"But she's too much a Gryff to leave someone else holding the bag."

"You know how to pick 'em, Fred."

"Give it up, George. Too young, too smart, too scary."

"They grow up so fast, you said. Remember?"

"Too smart, too scary?"

"We're Quidditch players; we live for danger!"

Ω

Originally, it was just Hermione getting ready too early for something, in this case a New Year's Resolution List. She'd been at Hogwarts for almost half a school year, and would be taking the Express back to London in another two days. Currently her roommates were out scrambling for this or that fact needed for a last minute assignment, or finding a friend in another House to exchange Owl Mail addresses with, so she had a few moments to herself and had decided to not cut into her holiday time at home with this little ritual. That's what it had started with, until she started to think. Then, as she descended into a deep morass of recollection, things changed a bit, and what actually ended being put onto the piece of paper on her desk in the bedroom was a little different from 'stop bothering the House-Elves for milkshakes after midnight.'

Hermione Jean Granger ended up sitting at her desk, and making a list; because that was the sort of thing Hermione Jean Granger did. It had segued from a simple enumeration of vain wishes for self-improvement to a self-assessment. She did that from time to time, sometimes written, sometimes just mentally. It was not something that had often given her joy or confidence, as it most often took on the tone of "I'm Hermione, and this is why I am horrible." At first, her time at Hogwarts had been unmitigated success, but some of the events of the last few weeks had put her into a mood of depression that the coming holidays, and separation from her friends only accentuated. Her final version looked a bit different than her original intention.

_HJG: Monster or Menace?_

_ I-I'm still an over-eager, hand-raiser, assignment grabber, swot._

_ II-I'm an ungrateful and self-centered sponge._

_ A-I don't appreciate how good my roommates have been to put up with me. _

_ B-I insult the guys, over and over and I don't even really notice it half the time._

_1-So many times when it matters, i.e. real life, Ron is righter than me and I always do that stupid 'Point Weasley' thing like it's a big deal._

_2-I act like Neville is a lump of clay for great HJG to mould to perfection. Hah!_

_3-I know that Harry's got something wrong in his life, besides the Orphan thing, as if that isn't bad enough. Something is wrong, and I've been too timid to find out about it, and too clumsy._

_a-And I do the same stupid thing with Harry as I do with Ron, even though he's just as quick as I am in actually doing magic, rather than just writing about it._

At this point, having been writing with a large, clear, bold hand, Hermione had to drag out another piece of paper to write on. She labeled her first page '1' and put a large '2' in the top right hand corner of the new one. She had decided to mail it back to her parents (she could never have the nerve to just hand it to them) so that they could see what an ungrateful mess she was despite all that they'd tried to do to raise a decent human being. She referred back to the first sheet to get her thoughts together, and to make sure she had her place and notation just right.

_b-And I dreamed a few nights ago about Harry, or it might have been about Ron or Fred, doing naughty things to me, and I think I did things back. I can't quite remember exactly who or what, but I'm sure I shouldn't have enjoyed them (whoever they were) so much!_

_III-I still suck up to and respect authority too much. I treat them (Professors) with __sometimes__ often undeserved respect._

_ A-Snape is a disgrace as a teacher, he knows his stuff, but what idiot hired HIM?_

_ 1-Headmaster Dumbledore, who knows his magic stuff, but…._

_ B-Flitwick is fine, though._

_C-McGonagall is not a wise, understanding, approachable mentor, and den mother. She's an old fashioned, blue-nosed, intolerant, bigoted, condescending time-serving old BITCH!_

"You don't fool around, do you?" came a voice from over her shoulder. Hermione twisted her head ninety degrees, and saw Kandice leaning over her shoulder with an amused grin on her face.

Trying for a little dignity in her surprised situation Hermione said archly, "You know I always try to put down the best and most accurate information when I do something."

Kandice nodded her head, then answered: "When I try to put that sort of thing down I always end up messing everything up with tears and ink blots. You do a much better job than I did when I wrote my 'What am I doing here?' blues down. But I think you're going to run into a limit on the sub-headings and subordinate whatchamacallits pretty soon.

"Don't know if it was Harry, Fred, or Ron who you were being randy with? For me, nighttime dreams are usually with Perfect Diggory, on a broom at about five hundred feet. I think Lav has a thing for Malfoy. Takes all kinds, I guess."

Hermione wanted to snap at Kandice for reading her most personal, secret, and intimate stuff, but after months of living cheek by jowl by buttock in one large room, it had become second nature for them all to check what the others was doing (unless the bed curtains were drawn) to make sure that one assignment or another wasn't being forgotten. This was her own fault for doing it out in the open and being quite a bit more juicy than normal. Given similar temptations, Hermione knew she would have done the same. Hmm, Kandice and Perfect Diggory (that face, that hair, those teeth!), good taste, that.

Hermione wondered if she should include another subheading (was that IV?) 'I've given up all pretence of Personal Space for myself or my friends.'

Kandice continued: "Anyway, girl, who doesn't get the Blahs in the Highlands in December? Sheep, who never get out of the Blahs, and clouds who think it's convention time?"

"I'm not-"

"Worthy? Good enough for the fast company you've been keeping? Merlin, Nimue, and Virgil! Hermione, be a little easier on yourself. We forgive you for being you, and you forgive Lav for that irritating giggle of hers. Just be properly grateful for how lucky you are to have met us magnificent Gryff Girls!"

"Should I be? After all, if your standards are that low that you hang out with a… me, how wonderful can you really be?"

"Did I mention," Kandice said, "how big-hearted and tolerant we are, also? Some of our most prominent characteristics are big-heartedness and forgivingness. And toleration of the incurably smart."

Hermione took all this in, and glanced down at her self-indictment. Was it totally fair… was it really totally true (except the parts about Snape and McGonagall)? And the dream, of course.

"I think I messed that thing up, anyway. Pretty decent self-criticism, then I go bitching about the Staff, and then putting down things I doubt any parent wants to hear from their daughter living in a co-ed boarding school. I'll just clear my desk, and race you to the Courtyard."

Sweeping her cry of despair into the wastebasket, feeling incredibly lighter in all ways, Hermione tried to catch up to her light-footed roommate. She didn't, but the run was wonderful.

Ω

As she was lugging her neatly packed trunk through the Common Room, Hermione saw a pool of red hair, with a few spots of black and blond in it, standing around the fireplace, with not a trunk or even valise in evidence. There were Percy, Fred, George, Ron, Harry, and Neville, all warming their hands, and not taking any notice that the last minutes to get to the transport to Hogsmeade Station had come. As they noticed her they turned and waved her cheerful goodbyes, except for Neville who included a "Thanks ever so much!" She'd have liked to stay, and figure out what was going on, but Hagrid (the groundskeeper) had just blown a horn (actually the largest conch shell anyone had ever seen) to announce it was move, or hike back to London time. It wasn't until the first letter (written by Harry, of course) arrived several days later that she found out what was happening.

The entire Weasley student clan had decided to stay up at school for the Holidays, it being a great saving in food bills for the family that was preparing to send another redhead up to be educated the next year. Their father would use the Fireplace Floo method of transportation in a few days so that they could do some shopping in Diagon Alley, as well as some unspecified business that she was evidently supposed to know about without being directly told. It was only when she was informed that Harry was staying up at school to avoid the grudging hospitality (and she still hadn't gotten up the courage to ask him directly what was going on there!) of his relatives, and that Neville was also staying over, that it all became clear to her.

The ostensible reason Neville's grandmother had allowed him to miss the usual riotous Longbottom Yule celebrations (sedate Afternoon Teas where Grandmother Augusta and her friends discussed the latest obituaries, and scandals that had occurred sometime before the Wizarding Wireless was invented) that she and her equally ancient and spry friends gave each other; was that with Percy and the Twins at Hogwarts also he would be getting intensive tutoring in several subjects. Including Potions, where a notice sent to her about his grades had resulted in more than a single Howler notice at breakfast already. No matter what their conduct was (average them all together and it wasn't all that bad), no one could deny that the Weasleys' actual grades were well above average. In fact, Grandmother Longbottom had agreed to pay for supplies and such fees as would prevent the Longbottoms from having to feel personally obligated, even if only to the Weasleys, a family that they were on friendly if distant terms with already.

So, now Hermione knew what the Prank was. She could, sometimes, figure out what magical procedures the Twins had used after seeing the results, but their true mastery was in getting into other peoples' heads, and having them looking in the wrong direction most of the time. That was an art she desperately wanted to learn.

She wrote back at once, of course, hoping to get an exact time and place for a rendezvous, but the reply only came on January 2nd of the new year, delivered by a very small and very overloaded little owl. It was again from Harry, and was far more candid and complete than the first letter. From the date on the inside it had probably been carried around in someone's pocket for several days before finally being posted.

_Dear Hermione, Dec 24, 1991_

_ I'm writing this at a table in the Leakey Cauldron while Mr. Weasley is gong the rounds with old acquaintances and sharing Holiday Greetings, so excuse any stains on this, especially beer ones._

_ So, we all got to go today to the Alley, and while Percy and the Twins (yes, even Perce is in on this, his girlfriend would drop him if he didn't help a student do his best, her being a 'Claw) distracted Mr. Weasley us three youngers got off to __**Ollivanders**__ and got him to look at Neville's wand. We were lucky, he was going to close early that day, but something told him to stay open._

_ Anyway, he remembered selling it to Nev's father, tut-tutted about how banged it was, but allowed that an Auror's wand got a lot more damage than most, and then actually opened it up, when the test he was doing seemed all wonky. Out poured ash! Ollivander said he'd never seen damage like that before, so Nev has a record of some sort. There was a whole lot of stuff I didn't understand said, but the upshot is that it should be "retired" and Neville selected a new one, which he paid for with his Holiday Money which was supposed to pay for a real sweets binge for all of us but this is much more important, as I'm sure you will agree, and this one works a lot, lot, better for him. And he likes that._

_ Then there was this big surprise because Ron pulled out his wand and asked Ollivander if he remembered __this__ one, and the old boy DID! It wasn't even really Charley's (like Ron had told us that day), but really one of his uncles that got killed in the War that Charley had inherited. And its not too good a match for Ron, either, but Ron wouldn't let us pay for him getting __anew__ a new one even though we offered to pay and Ollivander said he had just the thing. Noble and all, but really?_

_ I'm about done now, I'll ask Mr. Weasley to mail this from his home because of something Percy said that stuck in my mind, and Ron agrees with me on that, this. _

_ Yr friend, Harry._

Hermione felt an emotional tide beginning to rise in her, and stood up. Then she began to dance wildly, and with no known steps or motions, just an ecstatic dance of righteous joy. Yes! She'd been right! Yes! The Twins had come through! Yes, yes, yes, all of her worries about messing up Neville's life had been just adolescent moping and moonshine. The sound of stamping feet and small yelps of joy finally brought her parents to her room, to see their daughter cavorting, and even happier than when she had got a chance to ride the elephant at the Zoo. And feed it, of course.

Ω

The ride back up to Hogwarts that January was different from the first time Hermione had made the trip. This time she sat with friends she already knew, noshed on Mrs. Patil's finest creations that Parvati had carried onboard in quantity, and they exchanged stories how their parents tried to understand them, and missed the mark completely. In short, it was blessed normality after the stresses of being around family for such a concentrated space of time. Fay was a little under the weather, even though it was the second day after she'd discovered the combination to the Firewhiskey cabinet back home and did a great deal too much experimentation. They all coddled her a little, while secretly agreeing that her parents letting her discover for herself the drawbacks to overindulgence was way cool.

Lavender mentioned that she had heard from a cousin who heard… well, the grapevine was vast, after all. Something had happened up at school over the holidays, bodies had been carried to the Infirmary, magical battles fought, and they had missed it! Since Hermione probably had the best line to the truth… everyone knew she was practically an apprentice of the Twins… she was delegated to get the story. Straight from the most likely source of all the chaos.

The girls were right, and wrong. Hermione was, in fact, the best source to the true dope, but the Twins were as innocent as if they had been spending all their time trying to break into the Slytherin Dungeon to plant a few harmless surprises for the returning Snakes. But no one could prove that; no one!

The true Weasley in the woodpile was Ron, who was quite willing to tell all about it in his own words as the four (Ron, Neville, Harry, and Hermione) First Years took an amble around the grounds between bouts of sleet.

"Harry was good about lending us his Invisibility Cloak… we have to find out who gave it to him. So even though there was hardly anybody around we took turns wearing it because, well, it's great to be invisible. Percy says the Cloak is special, 'specially good. So, that makes using it even better.

"It was the day after Neville found the dog, so I was really geared up-"

"Dog?" Hermione asked. "Is someone keeping a dog here?"

"It's not your everyday dog," Neville said mildly.

"Anyway," Ron continued, "it was the next day, and even the ghosts and portraits couldn't see old Ron as he-"

"Portraits? What do the bloody portraits have to do with anything?" asked Hermione.

"You didn't know that the portraits all report to the Headmaster anything they think it's important that he should know? Its old Weasley family lore, passed on from older brother to younger. So sacred that Bill told Charlie who told Percy, who even told Forge and Gred, mainly to keep them in a bit less trouble for the sake of the family name, who told me. You don't think they could have got away with so many things without out a bit of insider knowledge, do you?

"I avoided the Third Floor, 'cause Nev had already solved that puzzle-"

"What puzzle? What?" screeched Hermione, a victim of her tormentor's detailed knowledge of her mind.

"Oh, you know," Ron said, "Sorting Feast speech… don't go there, Forbidden Forest, no chewing gum, that sort of thing. Anyway, Hogwarts has more interesting places than that, so I was up on the Fourth Floor, in a section that wasn't much used. There was this door, just a little ajar, and a moaning sound coming out of the room it was for. So, brave in my unnoticeability, I poked my head in there, and saw Tony Goldstein… he's a Ravenclaw in our year… just standing there in front of this big free-standing picture frame or something. And he was making these weird sounds in a foreign language, and shaking like he was having a fit.

"I went in real quiet, because if he was casting something… you know how bad that could get. But when I got a little ways in I saw that he was looking at a moving picture of me getting the Order of Merlin, First Class, with the whole family around me cheering, and you guys punching me in the shoulder and all. Which was great, of course, but I couldn't understand what was making Goldstein so interested in that, and then I moved a little to the side and the picture disappeared and I realized it was some sort of a mirror, so I went full speed out of there. Mirrors are dangerous!"

Hermione nodded. The number of magic mirrors that showed up even in Muggle stories and fairytales were an indication of the unease that other world, on the other side, provoked. Seeing her attention was riveted on his story, Ron continued.

"Well, the Twins were somewhere else, and I didn't know where, so I hightailed it to the Common Room where Harry and Neville were pretending to try to play chess. I just grabbed them, and hustled them back. Goldstein was still there, yelling even louder, and swaying like he'd fall over in a minute. I told the guys the score."

Here the two others murmured words of encouragement and agreement. Harry, coming from a background deficient in both Magical lore, and her degree of exposure to Muggle culture as well, had benefited the most from Ron's quick briefing.

"So, there he was, Goldstein, and we yelled out to him that we were coming in, but he paid no mind, just got louder. We backed in, so we wouldn't see whatever had him entranced, and I'm using that in the technical sense, Hermione. We grabbed him and hustled him right out of the room. He put up a struggle, but it was kind of weak. We found out later he'd been missing for about a day and a half at that point. Lack of food and sleep I'd bet.

"Anyway, once he's outside he sort of collapsed and we carried him to the Infirmary. Matron had him on a bed and started pouring potions into him like there was no tomorrow; said things like dehydration and deprivation and such, so we just cleared out of there. Then Harry gets this idea."

"Well, it was sort of obvious, really. Very public spirited, if you look at it the right way," the boy in question said.

Neville smiled, and added, "and potentially very useful, if you look at it in every other one."

Ron picked up the thread again; there was still the best part to come, after all.

"Before all the hue and cry starts we figured we might as well go back to the room, and see about keeping someone else from being caught in the Mirror's sinister snare. When we got back we thought about it for a little while, and it just seemed so unsafe to leave it there, where anyone could find it, and we couldn't stay there to protect them all the time. So Harry suggested we put his Cloak over it so it couldn't be seen. Makes it safe, right?

"But we didn't want to lose all use of the Cloak just for doing our civic responsibilities, so we used that levitating charm Flitwick taught us… and thanks for helping me with it… and moved the Mirror from that unsafe room to somewhere… safer. You got to promise to tell nobody about it, unless we agree. Promise?"

Hermione agreed without question. After all, people had different secrets in regard to different people. She'd never tell the boys about some of the things discussed up in her room with her roommates; it was only fair that she keep the secrets of their (what was it? Band/group/cabal/squad?) own adventures secure.

"Sixth Floor, East Wing, behind a tapestry of Unicorns hunting men… well, girls. It's actually very tasteful, demure. It's a bit faded, and Percy was persuaded to teach us the 'Not My Business' charm, so that people won't bother with it. We'll have to de-charm it, and have you come on for the re-charming. It's out of the way, not in any usually travelled path, near the Gryffindor Tower, but not too near. If anyone advertises for a missing magic mirror, we'll let them know, of course. But if there isn't any owner, or the owner is shady and won't ask for it back…"

At one time, just a few months back, Hermione would have been outraged at students not going to Authorities to clear this whole thing up. But since the most logical local Authority was their own Professor McGonagall, it seemed likely that they'd only get in trouble (like getting detentions when they weren't even hexing anyone at the Flying Class!) for eliminating a public danger. And that wasn't fair. Even more, it certainly wasn't 'H Potter trainhelpalways,' was it? She felt a glow of virtue as they scuttled toward the west entrance to the castle, as the sleet began again. Even though the boys had done all those great things when she was away, she was still part of their group, their inner circle.

What was it about the dog, though?

Ω

"Right," Hermione thought to herself, "Neville was right. 'It's not your everyday dog.'"

Which was a little odd, as she was looking into the room in the company of George and Fred Weasley. After all, Fred was currently sporting the cold, black, perfectly healthy nose of an Alsatian or Collie himself, which should have set a high standard for oddness already. He had managed to start his Animagus transformation, just a bit. The part about turning that bit back to its previous state was still not quite where he wanted it to be however. Hermione had had much the same trouble with her paws… hands, and knew that it would all work out in the end. Meanwhile, though, they were looking at a three-headed dog the size of a smallish (but by no means dwarf) mammoth.

They knew a few more things about it than just its size and tri-cephalic condition. There was a chain attached to its collars (with three nameplates saying "Fluffy") keeping it confined to a limited area of the largish, unused classroom. There were sets of food and water bowls, filled and with fresh contents in them, well within reach. It seemed that there was no untreated waste allowed in the room for more than a few hours, and the open windows ensured fresh air for the creature. The House-Elves (the Twins had discovered) refused to feed, water, or clean up that room, and when interrogated had been quite willing to say it wasn't their job to engage in animal husbandry (or words to that effect). And Fluffy was lying partially on top of a trap door. Hermione had been told by usually reliable sources that this Third Floor room was directly over a Second Floor room which had no trapdoor in its ceiling.

One of the heads was watching them with a degree of suspicion, one was sleeping, and one was playing with a chew toy that must have taken something larger than a single cow to make. Whatever was under that trapdoor must have some great value to someone. The questions were: What? And also, Who? To help answer these questions, Hermione agreed to Harry's plan.

It was Harry's plan because… he had thought it up, and he'd had the first lead. On the day he'd first been brought to the Alley, Hagrid had gotten something from **Gringotts**. The day before it reported the first break-in success there ever, though they said that nothing was taken. Now, Hagrid probably had been involved in legitimately emptying the rifled vault, but the likelihood that he was the owner of something of great value was low. He was an agent, if this trail of ideas was correct, for someone else. Who, and what was it? Harry did everything but light his detective's pipe when he declared it was time to give someone a visit.

Ω

Before they entered the cozy (merely barn sized) cottage of the Keeper of the Keys and Grounds, the four students did a quick and quiet reconnaissance of its surroundings. Poultry pens on one side (Hermione was somewhat disappointed to see chickens scratching the ground there, and not something of a proper ostrich size), gardens on the other (with an immense shed equipped with a massive bolt and chain, and a nameplate, "Fluffy", above the entrance), and a pile of cut firewood sufficient for a blizzard-prone winter out back.

It was a bit crowded in Hagrid's little hut near the woods. It wasn't (after all) really all that small, but the furniture, for obvious reasons, had to be on a large scale, and he seemed to keep most of his Keeper of the Keys and Grounds paraphernalia (and a good deal of his catch of vermin and predators) in what was one large room. On the table that dominated the middle of the room was an iron-legged brazier, full of hot coals, with what looked like a large, polished stone in it. He looked at the stone frequently, and with an obvious degree of affection. Ron stared at the stone with a good deal less admiration. A huge boarhound trotted from one student to the next, searching for the one best suited to scratch behind his ears.

Neville and Harry were charming the half-giant; it was a talent that both had in abundance, but hadn't shown much previously to Hermione's knowledge. Neville, evidently because he was shy by nature. Harry because of the fact, he said, that until Hogwarts anyone he tried to make a friend had immediately been beaten up by his cousin and his pals. Which led to few extended relationships with people his own age. The adults of the area had been informed that he was an incorrigible juvenile delinquent and should be avoided for safety sake. Hermione was alternately amused and appalled. The amusement was how nonchalant the boys made some of their earlier adventures (thrown out of a window? Teacher's hair turning blue?) and the other reaction was due to hearing of a child being told that if he didn't measure up magically he might as well be dead, or the other having lived in a boot closet for years on end. The worst part was seeing Hagrid nodding sadly when Neville talked about his uncle teaching him his worthlessness without magic, and hearing Harry add details to his story about living worse than a mistreated dog at his Aunt's house. She was too shocked and sad to even cry at that. Lord Longbottom being prepared by his family to 'do the decent thing' if it turned out he was a Squib. Mr. 'Millions' Potter scrounging for a piece of half-eaten fruit after a day on a piece or two of dry bread. How could they be kind and generous and funny if that had been their life?

Before Hermione could sink into a depression that would have required her to be bodily carried to the Infirmary, and dosed with every Calming Draught and Draught of Peace in the place, Ron entered the conversation.

"I just want to say, Hagrid, that I'll always appreciate how you've been there for all the students, and how you kept the Centaurs from raiding the hen house, and all. You'll be remembered fondly, a consolation that you'll probably need while you're in Azkaban."

"What are yer talking about Ron? I live clean and honest; me mum and dad taught me that!"

"Is that a dragon's egg roasting in that iron pot on the table? 'Cause if it is, I think that there's six years in the clink for that alone. Charlie being in the Dragon business we get lots of stories about poachers trying to steal the hatchlings or eggs, and the clincher is always how long the local Bastille gets to take care of the culprits. Or did the Ministry give you an exemption? That would keep you in the clear."

Seeing eleven-plus feet of embarrassed man-mountain being fidgety and ineptly evasive was a hard thing to miss, both for its novelty and the sheer scale. After a few throat clearings and failed attempts to start a sentence, Hagrid was able to launch into his defense.

"It's rightfully mine; won it fair and square inna game of cards a week ago. There was this fellow, down at the **Hog's Head **in Hogsmeade, who was a perfect fool for betting bad, an' I took him for more than his pocket held so he paid me off with this egg 'ere. So I won it fair and square, and that's me story and the truth!"

Neville got a thoughtful look on his face; since he had proved he did have magic, Grandmother had been making up for lost time giving him talks on the basic ins and outs of the Wizarding law code, and one of the elements that had stuck to him was the law on illegal possession.

"You better check, Hagrid. If that was a stolen egg it doesn't matter if you did the stealing or not, you're an accomplice if you're found holding it. I think the statute of limitations on major magic artifacts is something like two lifetimes, about two hundred forty statute years. That's to stop pilferage of things from people. If thieves can't be seen using what they stole or commissioned for theft for two generations or more, they probably won't bother, it was felt. Now that we've mentioned it to you, sorry about that, you're kind of stuck with the obligation to prove it was legally obtained. Did your gambling partner give you some certificate of ownership? Even if you don't get to keep the egg in the end that would clear you from knowingly… 'abetting a theft or encouraging brigandage…' I think that's the wording."

"It was as a bet between gentlemen, no paper needed to be shown. In fact, we never even exchanged names, though he knew me, I'm easy enough to recognize. Had his face all hooded up, not that odd a behavior for the **Hog's Head**, which is a good place for private dealings without some old biddy complaining that there's the odd mouse or something cleaning up spillins on the floor.

"Do yer think I'm in trouble? I don't want ever again to be in trouble with the law, not after me Third Year. If it weren't for Dumbledore… "

"And that's who you should see, right now!" Hermione shot out. "We'll make sure the egg stays warm and toasty, and you go right up and make sure everything is legal and above-board. After all, he's the Head Warlock. If he doesn't know, who does?"

"Ya think… ya think he'll… Of course yer right! 'E's Dumbledore!

"Now the charcoal is over in the corner, not too much or the egg will get addled. I'll be back before ya know it. Don't let anyone in until I'm back!"

With that, roughly a ton and a quarter of Keys Keeper ran out of the door, slamming it behind him. Fang (the boarhound) whimpered at not being given a chance for a good run; Neville let him out on the general principle that a whining dog should not be confined in the same room as you were, unless you were certain it had just had a thorough walk.

"Why, Hermione, why?" Harry asked. "We were well on our way to having our own dragon's egg when you stuck your oar in."

Ron rose to her defense. "Harry, it's not the cost, it's the maintenance. Do you know how much work… and meat… it takes to raise a dragon? Not to mention the room. We'd never have been able to pull it off while we're at school. We'd get caught for sure, and I wasn't just putting the wind up Hagrid; it is illegal to own or have dragons or dragon products in Great Britain outside of some list of authorized stuff. I know gloves and protective vests are alright. And there are some sorts of restrictions on Potions ingredients, they must be taken in a pain-free manner.

"Ollivander and other wand makers probably have some sort exceptions too, Nev?"

"Don't ask me, all I know is my family's old enough that a lot of magical things have been accumulated, and making sure they're not lifted and used against us is part of keeping the estate prosperous. That's why Grandmother taught me 'Possession is nine years in Azkaban, if they find it on you.' So, I know a bit about property law, for the rest I'll just hire a solicitor."

Harry sighed, and turned to Hermione: "Sorry, I thought you were just being over-goody again. But it's like what you said about dealing with Snape. This won't cost us anything, and will give us reputation capital for when we need it."

"Remind me how you got out of being in Slytherin again?" Ron asked.

"Some snakes eat snakes; the Hat didn't want the whole House depopulated," Neville supplied.

Harry was still grinning from that when they heard Fang's happy bark, and in through the door flew (rhetorically) the Headmaster and Hagrid. Within thirty seconds the egg and its incubator were enclosed in an insulating spell, shrunken to pocket size, and hidden away in a previously unsuspected part of Dumbledore's robe.

The Headmaster looked at the enthralled children. How they enjoyed seeing high level magic done by a Master. It was on days like this that he felt happiest being at Hogwarts. Still, he couldn't figure out what to do with this bunch. They were going so athwart his plans, but were doing it so magnificently! They were (as children so often seemed to him) absolutely contrary, and so often positively delightful. Not for the last time he hoped desperately that he was an obsessed, delusional old man, and not a perceptive and realistic general of wars past and to come.

At least this time their contrary natures had managed to save an innocent in the world. He wracked his brains to figure out, all the while twinkling his eyes in defensive nonchalance; why was everything happening now? The Flamel's Stone, the Unicorns, the Centaurs' warnings, Harry's unexpected constellation of friends? Why now?


	6. Chapter 6

I do not own, or receive any benefits from, the Harry Potter properties.

Palimpsest

Cognitive Disaster: Chapter 6

By Larry Huss

Afterwards, before they had returned to the Castle, the Headmaster had smiled and said that this little affair had to be their little secret, and 'mum's the word.' And then he'd twinkled at her. His eyes had positively twinkled. She'd seen it before, but never at such close range; it wasn't just an optical illusion. He'd been earnest. Earnest, and condescending, and with a twinkle in his eyes.

It took Hermione a while to pin down where she'd seen something like that before, but at last she managed to do so. Or rather, she'd managed to pin down the occasions on which something like that had happened before. Without the twinkling eyes; that had been the touch that had finally put it all over the top and put everything in place. Dumbledore (no, one must be respectful; Headmaster Dumbledore) was lying, or at least deceiving by omission, about something important. She had seen the same hearty manner, the same full tones, and the same careful choice of words before. Always from teachers or school officials who had wanted to do the pretend 'we're all in this together, you and I, so let's do everything my way' game. She hadn't minded being guided into not skipping grades in Primary School. Whether she was actually reading and doing the work one or two levels above her year didn't much matter anyway. At least she wasn't being singled out as both the annoyingly smartest in the class as well as the youngest. Even sheltered as she was, she had realized that being the youngest and smallest in that situation was a dangerous place to be. At least in her own age/year she could hold her own physically, and no one in Physical Education had had the size and muscle to 'accidentally' crush or toss her around. That was all to the good.

But here at Hogwarts she wasn't so lonely at the top of the academic heap. Sure, she was doing well, but the competition in her Year was a tight one, with at least two Ravenclaws, Harry, and two Slytherins nipping at her heels in various classes and sometimes pulling a higher test grade. It was an invigorating experience. And except in the most abstract sense she didn't feel that she was able to handle anything too much more advanced yet. Except the Animagus thing and that wasn't properly part of the curriculum anyway.

But Headmaster Dumbledore had twinkled at them (she was too honest to think it was all just for her), and been patronizing. As if there was something else going on that had to be covered up. It wasn't just a few innocent and wide-eyed students preventing one of the Staff from landing himself in prison. That must be only the tip of the iceberg. Or was it all just an older, wiser, teacherish thing to lie that way? As usual when at a loss, she went to the surest source of the lowdown on the less-than-public information.

Ω

"So, George, what's odd happening in the school, compared to last year?" Hermione asked.

"Aside from an irritating young witch who spoils a running prank my brother and I have spent years perfecting? Apart from Ronnikins showing up and turning out to be much less fun to play with than expected? Apart from First Years stealing our thunder? A few things."

"Don't be so down in the mouth. At least once a week a certain House has had to have massive cleanup sweeps for hidden pranks in their Common room and dorms, and they still haven't cleared up all of them. You can't say you've been totally put in the shade."

George looked down from the rampart of the walkway above the Main Entrance, out towards Hogsmeade. He was still a bit ticked at her for... a number of things… but her puppy-like eagerness was wearing his resentment down. And there were a number of oddities this year that seemed… odd. Even quizzing the Seventh Years hadn't brought up anything like the situation in the Forbidden Forest happening before. Sure, there were occasional anomalies turning up every now and again every year, but the Mirror that Ron had helped hide, the dragon's egg business, Hagrid's tri-hound disappearing from guarding his vegetable patch and showing up in the Castle itself…

"Don't really know where to start. How are you at handling hearing horrible things? Messy, evil, and awful things? If you've a weak stomach let me know; I'm not a cruel man at heart, not really."

"Oh, George, don't be that way. I have to grow up someday." At that Hermione tried to put a quiver in her voice, and give the little sniff of a child trying to act more grown up than they were. "I can handle it, I think."

With that encouragement he began to lay out a pattern that even he hadn't realized was quite so pervasive. The removal of portraits in the corridor leading to Fluffy's castle kennel. The Professors seen mumbling or carrying things before they had vanished heading in that same direction. The not-nearly-subtle enough interrogations of the Twins about if they had perhaps… misplaced something massive and magical; as if they were thieves and not Pranksters! The briefings given to the students doing detentions with Hagrid patrolling in the Forbidden Forest, and what they were told to look for. Percy actually having a girlfriend. There was the utterly dramatic change from last year in Professor Quirrell's behavior, clothing style, and general competence. From an outgoing Muggle Studies teacher to a nervous wreck of a DADA one, all within a three month span. All very odd, and not of any one piece that George Weasley could figure out.

Hermione found herself nodding her head as George rambled on about things. That Hagrid had been the original keeper of Fluffy was no great surprise. They had, after all, seen the evidence for that on their visit. But as George continued his listing of events certain things became clear, some of them not very nice at all.

Bad things were happening at Hogwarts; evil things. Unicorns were being hunted, killed! Centaurs were prowling around with ready bows and a bad attitude. And the Headmaster was dealing with things by twinkling his eyes.

"D conclsfcts" Hermione-to-be had written, and Hermione-of-right-now agreed. D concealed facts. And in the Forest blood was flowing.

Ω

Hermione had heard her parents use the expression, "Well, that one will go down the Memory Hole." It seemed that the Dragon's Egg Affair had done a good job of doing that. The faculty hunt for the Mirror of Erised (it hadn't taken long for the four of them to figure out its name and function) had too, after the Twins were cleared from suspicion of having taken it. But Ron, Harry, Neville, and she were never asked about it, it was as if it was all right if they were the ones who had got ahold of it. After all, having brought Goldstein down for medical aid it was obvious that Ron, et. al. knew of where the Mirror was. Why four fairly ignorant Firsties were being allowed to keep it under wraps was unclear; just that they were privileged. Privileged because they included Harry Potter? Or was it because Lord Longbottom was involved? It certainly wasn't because of another Weasley showing up, or Granger the Muggleborn witch.

By the time she had brewed up another batch of the Potion of Animagus Revelation (not its real name, but her preferred label), and had arranged for Neville and Ron's testing she was just the least bit twitchy, wondering exactly what else D was concealing. Oh, it was obvious (or paranoid, take your pick) that the thing that had been worth breaking into **Gringotts** for had been hidden in Hogwarts and was accessible via a trapdoor under a really big dog, and that there was some sort of monster out haunting the area. Who else would be hunting Unicorns that way? She'd even checked the Library, and the normal ways of getting Unicorn products were uniformly non-invasive, or at least not damaging.

But what was eating away at her most was the burning question; was she just as bad as D?

So far every one of the warnings, directions, or comments that she had received on that day (and had managed to decipher) had either been confirmed, or was at least looking very reasonable. If she wasn't acting so much like D, would the answers to the ones she still was clueless about be obvious to one of her friends or teachers? Hoarding that single sheet of paper might be the greatest mistake of her life, and everyone else's also.

But… but she had heard about the Divination teacher, Trelawney. Was she a loon because that was what happened to those who got visions of the future? She must be a seer; why hire someone who couldn't actually do the thing they were supposed to teach? Oh, there was the example of Quirrell to put against that idea. Or was that just a Trelawney thing? Or was it that you ended up acting like that because you got lucky once, and for the rest of your life people wanted you to tell them the names of the horses that will win the next Triple Crown? She'd have to think on things. Being a drunk locked up in a tower, not exactly her favorite career plan. In any case, being thought of as someone who knew something about the future was likely to be a dangerous thing.

Tonight wasn't the time to get into that type of deep brooding however. The four of them were in a suitable non-portrait-holding room, with a stout chair and a good coil of rope. She was currently showing them how far she had gone with her transformation; clever little paws up to her wrists and back to regular hands again. Harry had already shown his changed eyes and a generally more feathery sort of head coverage. He looked very much like an illustration of an extraterrestrial she had seen in a magazine once. When she mentioned that, she was astonished that both Ron and Neville knew what she as getting at. Evidently Cyrano de Bergerac was, for Magical Britain, the hot new Science Fiction author.

While Neville sat, tied to the chair and waiting for his vision (if any) to come, Ron began to muse, while Harry awkwardly practiced with the wooden flute Hagrid had given him as a Yule present.

"I think I know why there are so few Animaguses… Animagi."

Hermione's interest was caught by this: "You would think that there would be more, don't you? I mean, of the first four people we tested, three showed the potential."

"It's about the actual doing that's the important part," Ron continued. "I've been watching you and Harry and Fred working for weeks now, just to get one bit or another to change. It's too much work for most people. I mean, I'd like to know what my potential is, but I'd never go at it like you three. Fred and George are near insane, the amount of preparation they put in to get one of their gags off the ground; I'm just not that motivated. I like a good prank as well as the next person, but the effort involved!

"At least nine-tenths of Magic is using your power to get things done without having to sweat too much about it. You may spend ten or so hours mastering your housekeeping charms, but after that you never spend more than five minutes a day dusting or cleaning up. If most magicians weren't lazy buggers they'd all live in palaces floating in the air. Well… allowing for how much actual magical power they have, most don't have nearly the oomph. "

Hermione nodded at that. "So shoddy and just good enough satisfies most Witches, if something goes wrong they just use magic to do a quick patch-up. You spend a bit of time learning the basics, and coast on them the rest of your life."

Ron looked intently at Neville; the boy was starting to sweat heavily. He began to make deep grunting noises, and then lurched forward. The thick rope that held him creaked as it was stretched.

"Harry, look alive. Nev's a live one over here!" Ron called out. He'd heard about the Rising of Potter, and wanted some help available if Longbottom was similarly exceptional. Hermione pulled her wand out; she'd learned the Full Body-Bind Charm for just such an occasion. One of knots in the rope holding Neville gave way with a 'pop.'

His arm snaked out, quick as thought, and began to scratch the back of his neck. He licked his lips and smacked them once or twice, and then gazed at his friends with a cordial, but unfamiliar look in his eyes. Definitely not Lord Longbottom looking out at them. Hermione concentrated, and changed her hands from human to her altered form. Suddenly a look of recognition bloomed in Neville's eyes as he saw them. He nodded, and settled down again, patiently. Evidently the range of ways people responded to the Potion was extremely idiopathic.

When he finally came entirely back to himself Neville had no doubt of his form. He was a pig. Whether he was a cute little pot-bellied pig (only a hundred pounds or so), or a full bore boar (five hundred or more pounds) was a bit unclear to him; he hadn't seen anything he could properly compare himself to before Hermione had shocked him out of the dream-state he had been in. He hadn't tried to untie himself at the time because he was still feeling a strange compulsion to get down on all fours, and check out the smells of the more interesting corners of the room.

Now there was only Ron to be put to the test. For a second or so Hermione wondered if he would dodge out of it, but he cheerfully sat down, explaining that if he didn't want to fully develop whatever form he might have he just wouldn't. What he couldn't do was pass up the challenge of finding out the truth about himself. That got him two approving punches on the arm (Harry and Neville), and a beaming smile and nod from Hermione. "Bland," he said after he had knocked back his portion of the Potion.

First his breath become faster, almost panting. Then his eyes seemed to both lose focus, and start to dart around the room, his head not moving. A light sheen of sweat covered his face. Then he began to scream.

Harry and Neville started to yell at him, they didn't know any soundproofing charms. Hermione looked frantically around. She hadn't prepared any; she didn't even know if any existed that she could do. Ron was in full frantic-panic mode, and it was getting worse. She ran to him and did the best she could; she gathered his head in her arms and brought it in to where her bosom would be in a few years. Except for muffling the noise somewhat it didn't seem to be helping: it wasn't calming him down at all.

She was stroking his head frantically, saying his name again and again, when Harry suddenly pulled her away, and Neville shoved a balled up sleeve, still attached to the robe he had pulled off, into Ron's mouth. Harry looked at her face; she hadn't been crying, there hadn't been time to waste doing something like that when a friend needed help. Only when everything was out of her hands did she grab Harry roughly and bury her weeping face into his chest. He gently stroked her back; he'd heard it helped people somehow. And she'd been trying to do that with Ron, so at least as far as she knew it was the best way to calm people and take away their pain. He knew how much she hated hurting people (the Stinging Hex didn't really count), and making and giving Ron the Potion… well there was no way she was going to just write it off as a minor hiccup in her pursuit of knowledge.

Everyone was holding their breath, figuratively, until the Potion worked its way through Ron's system, and his eyes began to look normal. Cautiously Neville took the gag out of Ron's mouth, but apart from the boy attempting to gather enough saliva to spit out the taste of the cloth, nothing untoward happened. Neville draped the robe over a table in the room. The robe was, after all, his. And he'd really like the sleeve to dry completely before he put it back on for the trip back to the Tower.

Untied, Ron walked briskly around the room, for a while ignoring the questions his friends shot out to him. Finally he started to grumble out noises of the 'I don't want to talk about it' sort; leading Hermione to get sentimental, and give him a (this time) reciprocated hug. Finally, Harry and Neville broke it up; Ron had looked like he was enjoying it entirely too much.

"Well," Ron said, "let's just say I hate spiders. George and Fred had some fun with me, years back, and it sort of put me off of lots-of-legs. Well, actually I don't mind the Squid; it seems a friendly sort, somehow. But spiders… put me off my feed."

Everyone knew how serious that made the situation. Ron off his feed; a major trauma was being described there. Hermione put in the last nail in Ron's Animagus career then, "You saw yourself… with lots of eyes and legs?"

Ron nodded, and ever afterwards no one suggested he try to develop his wild side.

Ω

It was only fair, Fred thought. Let her figure this one out. He didn't mind how she came to him or George so often for information. Her trying her best to be all-grown-up and sophisticated was amusing, and the way that when she was teased she didn't fly off into a rage and attempt to make his nasal passages a gateway for a demonic invasion was a definite improvement over how Ginny handled that sort of situation. Still, while George might have forgiven her for her inadvertently driving a barrier between them, that didn't mean that they couldn't get some advantage from her obvious feelings of guilt that she had disturbed the relationship between her favorite higher Year Gryffs.

Accordingly, Fred volunteered to be the one to cast a Warming Charm on her the next time she went into the Black Lake for a swim. Percy, who felt that as a Prefect he had an obligation to assist the Firsty in her goal of being Latin-something in Latin-something, was hardly suspicious at all. He no doubt reasoned, if his dangerous younger brother Forge (or perhaps Gred; he still hadn't tumbled on how to tell them apart) wanted to spend his time pranking her, he would be too busy to continue his guerilla campaign against the most upright of the pillars of authority in Gryffindor, Percy Weasley. Foolish boy! While Fred (or for most of the School, Fred or George) was highly visible down at the lakeside, and George (or for most of the School, George or Fred) was seen scouting out the 'Puff Quidditch practice, a Weasley Twins style prank on Percy could easily take place at the wand of the newly competent (but stealthy) Neville Longbottom. After all, it would do the boy good to have a bit of independent fun, and it would do Percy good also. Teach him not to let his guard down.

So it was with a quiet sense of virtue that Fred watched Hermione Granger swim at least a mile and a half across the lake and back, being paced by the Squid on a lazy April afternoon. Then she came ashore for a moment to grab the bucket of sheep's innards the kitchen staff had provided for her, and helped the Squid develop its arm-eye, and tentacle-eye co-ordination in catching the various hearts, kidneys and livers that she slung up and out into the air for it to catch and consume. Followed by some pieces of hothouse melon that the House-Elves felt that they could spare from the dessert that night. As he watched the wiry girl at play Fred wondered if he could convince Alice or Angelina or Katie to take up swimming (and wearing swimsuits) as a good way to stay in shape for Quidditch. If they agreed, he'd even go into the water himself!

When Hermione was finally through, and had waved goodbye to the Squid, Fred had a Drying Charm ready, as well as some flip-flops and her outer robe. Service with a smile was his motto! There was also a flask of some hot chocolate (preferred over a potion in situations like this, nine times out of ten), and as she sipped it gratefully he pulled out the Marauder's Map and activated its spells. Naturally she bent over to look at what one of her favorite Weasleys was doing.

"It's been driving George and me buggy, ever since we lifted this thing from Filch's office a few years ago. Yes, it's just what it looks like. A map of Hogwarts that shows just where everyone is right at the moment. Helped us pull off many a prank after we figured out to use it. Don't tell even your boyfriends-" at that Hermione looked up at him with a confused look in her eyes; she didn't have a boyfriend, did she?

"-about it unless George, or me, clears it, right?"

She nodded; it was only right that the Twins could have their own secrets. She felt somewhat honored that she had been let in on this one.

Fred continued "You see the names move around. Even if someone is invisible, they show up here. Ghosts show up on the Map! It's not perfect; George and me have found a few things that aren't on it, but we also found some things that we would never have noticed without it, so fair's fair. The fellows who made it, the Marauders, were damn good wizards; positive inspirations and role models for George and me.

"Now look at this… the named dot in the Common Room, Peter Pettigrew, and how it's pretty stuck next to Ron's. Now, I guess he's sitting down and working on something, so he's not moving. If he did move, at least half the time Peter Pettigrew would move with him. Or else be left back in the dorms. Sometimes Pettigrew moves by himself, usually late at night.

"I don't know anyone named Pettigrew in Gryffindor, do you? The people Ron's closest to, look here, are all labeled, down to Hermione Granger who's down here at the Black Lake with Fred Weasley. So it isn't Potter or Longbottom… or anyone! It also isn't an imposter Potter or Longbottom… or Weasley for that matter… who's going around hiding their name.

"The weirdest thing of it is, last year, when George and I had finally figured out all the ins and outs of the Map, the same thing used to happen with Percy. But it doesn't happen anymore, just with Ron. The Map works the same as last year for everyone else, why is Pettigrew so different, and who is Pettigrew?"

Fred looked up; it was unusual to not hear Granger put forward at least a tentative question or a first draft of a solution to a sudden quandary. Her mouth was open, all right, but her eyes were wide-staring at the Map. Her hand came up and pointed, and she seemed to be trying to make noises. Then the silence was broken. No, not broken; ripped apart with a rapid fire of words that blended into each other with such speed that it was a marvel that Fred was able to sort things out.

"_Oh-my-God-I-can't-be-sure-I-have-to-check-on-the-sheet-please-don't-do-any-thing-rash-I-can't-be-sure-I-think-I'm-scared-I-won't-tell-the-boys-don't-you-either-I-suppose-you'd-tell-George-make-him-promise-to-tell-no-one-I-promise-to-give-you-an-explanation-it-may-even-be-the-truth-but-I-really-have-to-check._"

She spent the next few moments just breathing. Fred granted her that grace period before he started to iron out the details.

"You're going to check out something?"

She nodded.

"I shouldn't tell anyone, well George of course, but that's all?"

She nodded.

"Not even Harry or Neville, just Ron?"

She shook her head. "Not even Ron; especially not Ron. And not anywhere where a… not anywhere except out here where there are hawks and owls and you can be sure that nobody, and nothing could possibly overhear you."

Then she had to catch her breath again. "And it would be better to not talk about it at all, except to tell George and you not to try to investigate because… I'll know a lot more in a day or two, or three at the most. Especially don't talk about it anywhere near the Tower, or Ron."

At Fred's concerned look she relented enough to continue, "As long as you don't say anything Ron's safe. He's probably safe in any case, but I can't prove it until I find out if I'm… misinformed."

"Or crazy."

"No, "she said sadly, "not that. It would be so easy if it was that."

Ω

She was an idiot, she was a moron, and she was deaf, too. She'd heard Ron back on the train introduce his family rat, and it had sailed right on by her. Not one neuron had fired when she had heard the all-too-appropriate name Scabbers spoken back then. When the concept of Animagus had first been revealed to her; the same idiotic mental lethargy had reigned in her brain.

"Scabers=PtgrewAnmagus"

It was right there, on the copy of the original sheet of paper that she had typed so many months ago. She had read it hundreds of times, and each time discarded the idea of understanding that particular line. And a few others, too. But that one… how could she have ignored that one after she'd found out about one of Professor McGonagall's few redeeming features? Now she resolved (again) that as soon as she had the time to go over the sheet again and try for a translation into regular English, even the parts she was certain were already solved and understood.

She took a deep, clearing breath. Her roommates didn't even look up from their desks or beds; it was only Hermione trying to purge out some of her emotions. When she wasn't around , the other girls sometimes speculated if Harry, Neville, or Ron (or all of them) were a bit more… precocious than they looked to be. But, since there was a friend involved, they kept it among themselves. They understood the difference between girl-talk, and being gossips. And since Ron, Neville, and Harry were always fairly clueless about the goings on in the Girl's Room, it was certain that Hermione was also keeping the confidences of the many late night social networking sessions that took place up in the Tower.

Having cleared her mind; Hermione planned. Or perhaps it was, **Planned**!

Had Scabbers ever been brought to one of the Potions sessions? Ron had only been to the one, and she hadn't seen a sleepy white head pop up out a pocket at any time then. So, probably not.

Had Scabbers been around any time they had discussed or been practicing their transformations? Maybe, verging on likely. He may have been asleep though, or perhaps had been hearing about people thinking about learning the skill for years, and didn't think much of their chances of sticking to it. And would that be blowing his cover, anyway?

In fact, why was he doing it? Which sort of got back to a question she would have to get on immediately: who was Pettigrew? He was very, very, likely PtgrewAnmagus. But, live as a rat for the last… five years at least? Percy had had him when he had first come up to Hogwarts. Had to ask the Twins when he turned up. Did Pettigrew like stale scraps so much that he put up being put into pockets and hauled around for hours at end just to insure his supply? What was his motive?

Great. Fred's one question had spawned a whole family.

She pulled out a notebook, and began to organize.

_I-Pettigrew is a British name. Most likely belongs to a local wizard, or American, Canadian, Australian, or New Zealander, in that order._

_II-A-He's been in the Weasley household for at least five years._

_B-If __he__ is British there is a good chance he came to Hogwarts. Not for certain, but likely._

_C-There should be no-attention-catching ways of finding out Alumni. Certainly McG had a lot of pictures in her office. Library time! _

_Why is he doing this?_

_Odd person, an eccentric Wizard?_

_Crook on the lamb?_

_Part of Hogwarts' Security System?_

_Things to do._

_Stop all of us talking about the training so much, without being suspicious sounding._

_If sufficient info found, develop plans to handle things._

_Be cautious. II-B is a moderately strong possibility, and there's trouble if it's II-C and we blow his cover._

Hermione gave a nod; this was a plan of action that she could work with. Currently she was a few assignments ahead (not even a full week; she was strong, and had help) and could devote extra time to this new item of research. She closed her notebook, put it onto the bookshelf above her desk with all her other things, not sticking out or otherwise noticeably special, and went over to help Lavender, who was having trouble putting PassionFruit Purple Polish on some of her more awkwardly placed toes.

Ω

Hogwarts, Hermione discovered, had an almost complete run of _Yearbooks_, _Graduating Lists_, _Chronicles of Attendance_, and _Annals of Students_ (depending on how far you went back) that covered the last 852 years. Being magical books, scrolls, and Beech wood tablets sewn together, they were in surprisingly good shape. Starting about the year 1920 an enterprising and radical Headmaster (Armando Dippet) had instituted the practice of having photographs included in the _Yearbooks_. It was with an incredible act of willpower that Hermione was able restrain herself from starting her research at the first volume (1140 AD), but thankfully her very weak Latin ("note to self: learn Latin already!") meant that the temptation was controllable. In any case she had a time limit right now on things, so she started working her way back from Percy's first year, 1987. Back she went: 1986, 1985, 1984… For each year she carefully checked the names and pictures (because that made it less boring) of each graduating Wizard. If the Map had just listed P. Pettigrew she'd have had to check the witches also.

It was only when she'd already reached back to 1980 did she realize that Pettigrew might have left the school before graduating (if he'd even ever gone there) and all her work was potentially wasted. As she went back through 1979 she wondered if she was quite as smart and cunning as she thought. Maybe she should just ditch this particular search and try to find a better method. Then she hit 1978.

Peter "Chuckles" Pettigrew. Gryffindor. Voted most likely to become a globe. One of four close companions in Gryffindor, his notation said. She scanned for any description of his academic honors or distinctions, but in vain. But… the three names, Pettigrew's friends, had something interesting going on about them.

One was… unexceptional for a wizard's name: Remus Lupin. Very old fashioned and pseudo-Roman. A real wizardy name.

One was Sirius Black, Gryffindor. That one had echoes of Hogwarts history in it. Her copy of _Hogwarts, a History_, listed many Blacks, including Headmasters, and a slew of rooms and donations of materials from this or that Lord Black or maybe the other one. But of special interest were the notations scrawled across Sirius Black's photo (grinning and smirking and winking on the page after all these years). "Traitor!" "Murderer." "You evil bastard." At least three people (three different handwritings were obviously used) didn't like him any too much.

It was the third name that was the most interesting, though. James Potter, Gryffindor, Head Boy, Captain and Chaser for the Gryffindor Quidditch Team. Dead in the right period to be connected to someone called Harry Potter, who entered Hogwarts in 1991. Maybe a little young, but Hermione had noticed that despite their long lives Wizards and Witches were at least as prone to having early marriages as Muggles. Could she ask Harry his father's name; should she? In any case, Potter was, at least from the little she had seen, not a very common Wizarding name. Surely if James Potter had been a relative he would have been preferred for taking care of Harry instead of a Muggle. So he must have been disqualified for some reason. Which sort of hinted back again that… right. A little factoid came back from her glancing through one of the 'Harry Potter is a God' books that Harry himself disavowed. His father had been named James. And his mother had been… Lily. And there, on a previous page she had seen a picture and a name… yes, easy to leaf back to… in 1978 the Head Girl, and a Gryffindor, was named Lily Evans. As they shared a number of photos looking very… comfortable with each other, a bit more confirmation for her thesis seemed to be in place.

She'd run into both Bill and Charlie Weasley in her search, but she'd already known that Ron had had two brothers already graduate. There hadn't been any Longbottoms, nor Malfoys for that matter. Bulstrodes, Goyles, and even a Patil had shown up. If she had the time, someday, it would be fun playing around down here, doing some genealogy. Just not right now.

All-in-all, fairly convincing if not air-tight. At least she had found a Pettigrew, a Potter, and an Evans smack dab in the right time period. Now she had to find out why he (Pettigrew) preferred not to be known as a human. And it would probably be useful to know why James Potter's other best friend, Sirius Black, had so many people mad at him.

Meanwhile, she had to gently talk to Harry and Neville; convince them to ease up on talking about, or practicing their Animagus work for a little while. It wouldn't do to make too much of it, that would only alarm the… fugitive?

Ω

Two days later so many things she had discovered had been confirmed, and had just led to further questions and confusions. But it was the last day of her three; she had some sort of an obligation to talk to the Twins. She just had to make up her mind if she was going to tell the truth, which would almost certainly mean the whole truth sooner or later, or if her carefully prepared lie would be how she would handle things.

They were out by the Lake, and by all means of detection (including the Map) they were alone. She began:

"I had been doing some research, about Hogwarts history and I-"

She couldn't go on. Perhaps the Hat had been wrong about how cunning she was; she just couldn't start lying about something potentially as tricky as this to George and Fred. They had been too good to her, too supportive and helpful. She reached into an inside pocket of her robe and brought out a much folded sheet of photocopied paper. The original had been printed in Ariel typeface, it was very clear even in reproduction.

"A year before I got my Hogwarts letter I was sitting down in front of a Muggle machine that… makes very clear letter writing easy… and I suddenly got a bout of Accidental Magic hitting me. I started to type… it's what using the machine is called, and that in your hand is a copy of what came out, printed like a newspaper. My parents and I wondered if I had had a mental fit or something, until we followed some of the deciphered messages, and they turned out to be… real. Not crazy, or fictional."

The Twins looked at the paper for a moment, finally Fred broke the silence.

"Your Muggle machine doesn't spell things very well, does it?"

"I think that the message was limited in how much could be sent. Oh, I should have mentioned that my parents and I think that myself from the future sent me the message."

George objected: "Time tuners are limited, dangerous, and mostly make a hash of things."

"What?" Hermione burst out. "Time tuners?"

"Bill told us about them, years ago," Fred said. "Don't know how he found out about them. Anyway if you use them a bit you start getting a little confused, very fast. If you use them a lot you get very confused, very fast. And you can't do lots of things, anyway. And, finally, there's only so far you can go. A day or two, I think, maybe less. I got the feeling he was warning us, or something. "

"There is another way to look at things," Hermione ventured.

"Yes, the trousers," George offered.

Hermione considered that for a while. A nice way of looking at things, very homey. She nodded her head. "Yes, we considered things from that angle, and we still decided that either we couldn't change things, or that things had got so bad up-time that starting a new trouser leg of Time was something I considered worthwhile at the time. If it was me… if the me I'll be isn't absolutely evil. Things like that."

The twins looked at each other for a moment; one of those many occasions that had led to the rumor that they were in telepathic communication. Then they turned to her and said, "Nah, not likely. An Evil Hermione is harder to believe in than a time-traveling message."

She felt a little offended about that; she was sure that she had it in her to do anything, even be evil, if she felt like. It was just she never felt like doing it, that's all. Still, she had their attention, and they were showing an open mind. Maybe only one for the two of them, but it was enough. And one of the mouths attached to that mind began to ruminate, and provide some independent confirmation of her families thought processes.

"I bet sending yourself a message is pretty hard. Only send as much as you have to. Let's see what we have then. You're you, a witch, and you know the way to the **Cauldron **in London. Unless you made this up last night. No? Damn.

"Potter figures rather high on your list of favorite people, doesn't he? Why not Ron; or better yet, me? I'm taller, handsomer, and know how to dance. Why not George? He's a decent tenor, and always puts his unmentionables in the hamper.

"I don't understand at all the next one is."

"'Less hands up,' it's one of the ways I knew it was for just me, from me," Hermione said with a slight blush.

The slight perpetual grin that seemed to be a fixture on the Twin's faces disappeared. "'Horcrux?' Well if Vold made it… I see by your face you're a little confused. Vold is the first part of someone's name, a very bad person who is usually referred to as 'You Know Who,' or 'He Who Must Not Be Named.' Anyway, if he made it, it must be bad."

"I know about… the name. Then she asked," But what's a Horcrux?"

She saw that the twins were as puzzled as she was on that part. It must be very secret, and presumably, very bad.

"Anyway, it was the Scabbers is Pettigrew bit that has me all confused. Not that I don't understand it. I've even found out who Pettigrew is, I think. But until I understand what's going on I don't want to confront him. I haven't had a chance to check things; there's this whole knot of people involved.

"You see, Pettigrew was one of James Potter's best friends, along with Remus Lupin and Sirius Black. But what were they like, and why did Pettigrew end up with Percy, and not Harry. Oh, I think the James Potter I found was the James Potter who's Harry's father, who was Pettigrew's friend. I am scrambling this, aren't I?"

It was Fred who broke the news to her.

"Sirius Black was the man who betrayed his friend, and led He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to James Potter and Lily Potter's house, and killed them. He-Who tried for Harry too, but he's the Boy-Who-Lived, isn't he? I never heard about this Pettigrew chap, or any Lupin fellow, though."

George had scrunched his face up, as he went through some long ignored history lesson from back before he was in school.

"And then Black hunted up another old friend, and killed him and blew up a baker's dozen of Muggles, right out in the street. If Black was cleaning out his closet of friends, so to speak, it might have made good sense for Pettigrew to not look like a human, and hide out for a bit."

"But," Fred said, "but, after Potter was offed there's been years since Black was sentenced to Azkaban. Why hasn't Pettigrew come out of hiding? I mean, he's been around our place forever, long before Percy came up here, even. He must have heard about Black being sent away. Or even if not, he could always have gone to the Aurors for protection. Something isn't right here."

"Which is why I don't want to do any big revelation scene with Pettigrew right now," Hermione said. "Something smells fishy, but I'm not sure what. We have to find out more, and I don't know where to start."

"We do," said two voices as one.

With the promise from the Twins that they would be able to fill in at least some of the blanks, very soon, Hermione left the meeting. She felt awful about not having everything settled, and Ron having to live with a secret wizard in his pocket, but she trusted the Twins, and knew that when they set their mind on things they were very, very good at coming up with a solution to their problems. Hmm, a secret wizard in his pocket… perhaps he was a guard detail for Ron? But if so, from whom? She didn't realize until later that somehow the sheet with the copied message had stayed with the Weasleys. Well, there were worst things in the world. Perhaps they would be able to figure out a bit more about it than she had, and would tell her by the time she got a chance to talk to them next.

Ω

Fred and George tried very hard, and probably succeeded, in keeping an eye on Ron without attracting too much notice. They had also sent off an owl to their father, who had friends in many of the Ministry's departments. Friends with long memories, or at least they hoped so. A few days later a heavy package was delivered to them at breakfast, and after looking through it thoroughly they arranged for a little high-security meeting with Hermione later in the day.

That afternoon, down by the Black Lake, as Hermione passed around hot chocolate, Fred brought up the first order of business.

"I don't know if we can keep meeting like this; people are starting to talk."

"Not that I mind so much, " George interrupted, "except that Angelina is wondering if she has quite the hold on my undying affections as she thought she had. I don't want her to start thinking I'm fickle. Or that Fred has had a few dates with her when she thought it was with me, which could be fatal. I'm serious about that part."

"But enough about George's love life, what there is of it," Fred continued. "Peter Pettigrew is the recipient of the Order of Merlin, First Class, no less. There's a pension attached to that; not a big one though. In point of fact he got it for losing a duel with Sirius Black in the middle of a Muggle street. Only a severed finger was left of him afterward. Scabbers, if you haven't noticed, is missing a digit on his left front paw, I think. Anyway, Black killed a bunch of Muggles too, and the Obliviators had a field day taking away all the undesirable memories from the survivors who witnessed the duel.

Hermione looked out at the water in a pensive mood. "So, he's a hero. It's hard to imagine that he hasn't heard that the Death Eaters haven't won, that their Master is gone, or that Black is not around. So why is he still in hiding?"

"We've developed a theory," George said, "of such brilliance and subtlety that it must be true, because truth is stranger than fiction, and you're not going to get many stranger things than what we thought up.

"Black and Pettigrew were in on it together, and Black was just trying to eliminate his co-conspirator when the Aurors showed up and Pettigrew did a bunk, leaving a souvenir. Black then had a breakdown, realizing he was nabbed. For political reasons Pettigrew was made a martyr and hero, but he's worried that when Black was interrogated the truth came out, but the Ministry had already made an announcement and didn't want to look foolish taking it back. He's kept in hiding because he's worried that the Ministry would find a way to cause an 'accident' to happen if they got a clear shot at him, to prevent his spilling the beans or blackmailing them. He also doesn't feel secure that some loose wand, like Mad-Eye Moody, for instance, wouldn't decide to take justice into his own hands if he came out of hiding, even if the Ministry was willing to cut a deal. That's our first brilliant conclusion. Do you want to hear our next totally convincing idea?"

Hermione decided that everything they knew was covered in that theory, but that didn't mean that it was necessarily true, as such. It was evident that the Twins saw from her face that she had certain reservations. George's next comment told her that they weren't really too much in disagreement with her.

"Yes, there is definitely something hinky about the theory, but it agrees with the facts as we know them, and that's the best we can do righty now. I'm certain that something nasty is involved in this; Pettigrew is acting guilty, and that's a clue by itself. But it proves nothing. We just have to go and get some proof, and this is how we'll do it… "

Author's Note:

Yes, Hermione might well have solved the Pettigrew perplex earlier… if she hadn't been so self-satisfied with what she had already achieved, and kept at the clue sheet seriously. But self congratulation is a terrible obstacle to actually doing the hard mental work of deciphering hints from the Future, and the up-time Hermione hadn't been quite as clear in this case as she had thought she was, either.


	7. Chapter 7

I do not own, or receive any benefits from the Harry Potter properties.

Palimpsest

…Or is that a Wizard in your pocket? : Chapter 7

By Larry Huss

When Hermione left the planning session with the Twins she had her copy of the message from Future-Hermione back in her possession. She didn't have any delusion that they hadn't either committed it to memory or had copied it; so much the better if they had. Having someone more familiar with magic and its ways would allow a totally different perspective on the decipherment. At the least, the Hermione-the-Exceptional-Witch (that sounded nice, now that she thought of it!) who had sent it back had been seeped in years of high level magical work. She would have had to be of a different frame of mind than Hermione-the-First-Year.

Later that night, back in her room, on the bed, with the curtains around it drawn to indicate a desire for privacy and a Lumos spell providing light, Hermione opened up her most private notebook and contemplated how far things still needed to be worked on. On consideration she was very pleased. Once they figured out what a Horcrux was all she had to do was… there it was… "lrnOcculmency,Legilmency" for the entire sheet to be solved. Allowing for the undoubted number of practical, right-here-and-now, problems and questions that would come as natural consequences of being involved in something so big that the very rules of Magic had to be circumvented or violated, she was sure that everything would be put in its proper place by the time she finished her Third Year.

So… just discover the Horcrux lore, decide whether Peter Pettigrew was a hero or a villain, learn what she assumed were two spells, and spend the rest of her life as Harry Potter's (by now she was certain she was onto the right Potter) trainer and gofer. Nothing too hard!

It would, no doubt, be a simple but rewarding life of poverty, spinsterhood, and chastity; sort of like being a magical nun. If only it had said "H Potter helpalwaysTrain" instead of "H Potter trainhelpalways" it might have meant she'd be his lifelong helpmate, his wife. That would have been a rather more romantic set of instructions, but evidently Future-Hermione knew herself too well to think that was a likely outcome for her life. And there was no use telling herself to do something that was plainly impossible, even to the witch that conquered Time. Bugger.

Ω

You couldn't say that Hermione Jean Granger was bossy. If you did, she'd have rammed your words right back down your throat. Rhetorically, at least. And on that Sunday afternoon in early May she proved that she was, despite her recent dark suspicions on the value of absolute trust in authority figures, still willing to trust at least some of them. Fred and George Weasley, for example. She was following their plan, even though she was certain that there was more to it than they had been telling her. She was certain that if she had bothered them for all the details they would have told her the traditional excuse for concealing some of the lines of a play's other characters from the actors: "You'll act so much more natural if you don't know everything in advance."

She did know that they had spent over two weeks arranging their drama, had sent owl after owl out to destinations unspecified, and spent hours the evening before doing something. That was from her overheard snippets of their conversations. These had indicated that scene-setting was a very important part of their plans. Now all she had to do was shepherd the unknowing actors to their marks, and let the stage managers kick the thing off. Though why she had had to have her parents send her samples of something called a Roach Hotel was beyond her.

She kept her eagerness under control all that morning. She maintained her routine of Breakfast, Library and a swim. She now knew the Warming Charm herself, but had still managed to get Percy to use it on her. Always best to keep something in reserve, after all. Then, as her lines demanded, she told the boys about a special research meeting they were needed at, and that their pets and familiars were essential. So Neville was instructed to bring Trevor, Ron, Scabbers, and Harry, of course Hedwig. At least the Headmaster wouldn't be roaming around and putting the plan in jeopardy; she had seen him up at the Teacher's Table this morning having the most spirited whispered conversation with a strange man (stocky, gray haired, carrying a twisted staff, and with the oddest decorated eye patch on). They had wandered off onto the grounds, arguing like the best of friends.

She led the three boys in to the classroom. To her surprise a middle-aged man, a bit dumpy and so red-haired that it hadn't actually taken a cry of "Dad!" from Ron, who ran to the man and gave an entirely embarrassing hug (that he would no doubt regret when it was brought up in discussions later) to prove he was Mr. Arthur Weasley of Ottery St. Catchpole. Fred and George were also in the room, sitting in some comfortably overstuffed chairs, most likely the result of skilled Transfiguration work. The only other furniture was a long table in front of an open window.

"Why are you here, Dad? Is Mum all right? Is there something wrong?"

"All's fine lad, all's fine. Fred here wrote me about that this Animagus thing that you boys have been thinking about getting into. Well, it brought me back to the wild ideas I used to have in my youth, before Molly quite turned my head around and we got busy raising you scamps. Thought I'd see how far you've gone, and see if a rumor I'd heard back then is true.

"You see, there was this story going around, and I never heard it either refuted or confirmed, that if you were really do the animal transformation thing right you gain the ability to understand, and even to talk to all sorts of animals. Or is it just the type you are? Rumor wasn't certain, but I'd certainly like to know, and get in on the ground floor. So, I'm going to monitor you fellows as you develop your skills, and to make sure that when you succeed you get properly registered. And let's start now!

"Longbottom, pull out your toad, I'll make sure there aren't any residual spell effects on him, then you get into your best beastly mind-set, and see if there is any communication. Now, I know that you're not very much along the path, but it's important to start the fact-collecting early. Now, out with him! And Finite Incantatem!"

With that, a bluish beam of light left Mr. Weasley's wand, and struck a very startled Trevor, who wiggled free and quickly climbed into the nearest cover, the hood of Neville's robe. From there it was only a hop, skip, and a slither for the amphibian to completely disappear inside the boy's upper garments, leading to some wild shouts and energetic gyrations.

While this was going on, no one noticed a small white head pop up from an outer pocket of Ron's robe, and a portly, but surprisingly fast rodential-shaped form scooted down his leg and, after catching a good look at Hedwig the owl's interested glance in his direction, scurried under one of the chairs that the Weasley Twins had vacated as they got up to join the confusion of children trying to help Neville locate and extract Trevor the Toad from whatever secure lodging it had managed to find under his clothing. Once under the chair, and safe from predatory eyes, no more movement was detected from the unusually energetic animal domestic companion.

Finally, even the most cunning and agile of toads will be cornered if enough hands are available and have no regard for the modesty or privacy of the person being searched. Each of the perspective Animagus candidates attempted to communicate with Trevor, both in their normal and altered (as far as they went) form. No great flood of information occurred, and so in her turn Hedwig was next bathed in the spell to banish spells. Boar and bird, dog and midnight robber all failed to breach the boundary of interspecies communication. Since the current state of all the transformations was being noted, the entire program would obviously be repeated several times over the next few months (or years), to find the exact degree (if the rumored effect actually was possible) of change needed for success.

At last it was Ron's turn to present his family rat for the same treatment. Reaching into his pocket he exclaimed, "Gone! Scabbers is gone!" The cry went up from Neville and Harry, Fred and George, and not least Mr. Weasley, "Where's Scabbers?" But no directing answer came. As they began to divide up the labor of searching the room ("I'm sure I put him in my pocket before I came here," said Ron) a series of loud explosions was heard from some distant location in the castle. Being well-stocked with Gryffindors, there was an immediate mad dash out from the room to rush to wherever something loud and potentially dangerous was going on. In the confusion the door was even left ajar, a positive invitation for someone to drop in and see why the place was being used of a calm Sunday afternoon.

Ω

For a few moments there was only quiet, then one of the comfy chairs heaved up, and then slid off of the back of a pudgy and prematurely balding man. He seemed to be having some difficulty getting up and off of his hands and knees. Finally he managed to slowly free first one hand (carefully now placed to give him lifting power) and then one foot. With that much free he seemed to hesitate a moment, and then just twisted his body over to the right hand side, and with a slight ripping sound freed himself from what was evidently a very sticky patch of flooring that had been under the chair.

Completely free, he drew a wand from an inner pocket of his dusty and tattered coat and cast a series of cleaning spells on himself, getting rid of whatever adhesive material he had evidently encountered when he had run under the chair in his rattish form. Then he went to the door, and cautiously stuck his head out, surveyed the corridor in both directions. Satisfied that the coast was clear, he began to hum a cheerful tune and opened the door fully, stepping out with confidence and élan. He was immediately hit in the back with a Full Body Bind Curse.

As he toppled to the ground he was hit by a Stupify. Evidently the young man standing next to the window, who had just canceled out the Disillusionment spell on himself and become visible, had no intention of allowing anything in the 'daring escape' line to occur. Evidently he had some sort of past history with the immobile man, who was being dragged into the room. The young man, in his Hogwarts robe with a Gryffindor patch on it, was mumbling vile obscenities and there was a suggestion that if he had known any of the more unpleasant Unforgiveable Spells he might well have been using them.

"You bastard. You bastard. I confided in you; I changed clothes in front of you!"

Yes, Percy Weasley, Gryffindor, and high-achieving student, felt he had a bone to pick with the man who his two younger brothers had told him was a wizard missing from view for over a decade. He hadn't believed them, had refused to let them pull another prank on him, had denied the possibility that the pet he had kept with him at home and at school for so many years was really Peter Pettigrew. The murdered and absent hero; the last victim of the vile monster, Sirius Black. But Father had been there, saying that it was either true or a chance for him to get his own back at the Twins. So he had allowed himself to become their invisible watcher for the charade they had planned.

He would allow that the little playlet had been funny, and that Animagus transformations were a valid research project. He had expected that he would end up left alone as afternoon turned to evening, another fine laugh for Fred and George. But within five minutes of their exiting, everything they had said might happen, had. Now he looked venomously at the man who had betrayed his childhood memories, that bastard!

Percy went over to the window, looked down, and saw heads looking up, mostly red-haired. He waved his arm and yelled out that there was something that they should see. It was a comfort how the usual pranksters were suddenly gallivanting to his tune. The music of their pounding feet calmed Percy down, a little. When they entered, with Father and Ron and his friends, there was a surprise. An elderly wizard (his name on the tip of Percy's tongue) and the Headmaster himself came in also. Everyone not a student (kept well in shape by Hogwarts' innumerable corridors, staircases and fine tuned class scheduling) was huffing and puffing so much that Percy had a chance to go for a Grand Moment.

Pointing at the rigid and unconscious man on the floor Percy used his most pompous and portentous tone: "Peter Pettigrew, I presume!"

The Headmaster was taken back, the stranger (now Percy had his name now; Father had pointed him out once, when the boy had been visiting the Ministry. Moody, 'something' Moody) strode forward, and pulled a pair of handcuffs from out of somewhere and slapped them on Pettigrew.

"Damned if I really know why I did that. There are no warrants out on him, and the Emergency Decrees expired years ago. Force of habit mostly, I guess. Can always take them off. Rennervate! Finite!"

With these two counter spells Pettigrew lost his rigidity, and snapped awake. His face took on a look of concentration, and then disappointment, when whatever he had expected to happen, didn't.

Moody laughed. "Them Darbies on your hands are proper Auror issue; cancel out spells. I don't think you can slink out of things this time, Pettigrew!"

"I'm innocent, I couldn't help it. I was so terrified of him!"

Moody thought back to the speculation that had gone around among the Aurors back then, when the first reports of the Potters' deaths had come in. Followed quickly by the news of the murder of a Wizard, and a dozen Muggles. Why Pettigrew got a medal out of the deal, everyone agreed, had been pure politics. He hadn't even lasted long enough to stall Black; that bugger had his breakdown that night all by himself. More from force of habit than any real expectation of something juicy coming up, Moody had his artificial eye roll around menacingly. If Pettigrew had anything to confess that should scare it out of him! And if there was one thing that decades of dedicated Auror service had taught Alastor Moody, it was that everyone had something or other to confess.

The handcuffed man continued to talk, a spiteful tone coming into his voice.

"It was all their fault, anyway. If they hadn't been so clever they'd have left the Sirius as their Secret Keeper. Nothing I did would have done would have mattered. But nooo, Peter's so timid that no one would think he'd hold the Secret. They all laughed, and Sirius did too. And I had to join in and pretend it didn't hurt. Stupid little Peter, stupid little Peter. But I got them all. Two in the grave and one in a worse place. No one could say I went down easy. Stayed free for ten years, didn't I? And the great Sirius Black was rotting in Azkaban next to his crazy cousin all the time. But stupid little Peter Pettigrew has been running free for ten years.

"I'll tell on people, I know things! Big things! Just don't give me the Kiss, not that!"

'Well,' thought Moody to himself, 'this is a more entertaining self-incriminating statement than I'd hoped for, and it's been a busier day than I'd expected when Arthur asked me to do him a favor and come up to Hogwarts with him.'

Hermione had heard about Azkaban. It almost sounded like Black was innocent, the way Pettigrew was talking. And it really sounded like Pettigrew was guilty. Of something, certainly, though she wasn't sure exactly what. It was at that point that she made a mistake; she looked around her to see how the others were taking this series of revelations, and caught a glimpse of Headmaster Dumbledore's face. His eyes weren't twinkling now, they looked more like he was about to break out in tears. His mouth was hanging open, and then she thought that she heard just a whisper, "Black? Innocent?"

She could have stood for him to be evil; he was definitely shifty. She was totally sure that he was a manipulative deceiver. But that he was ignorant of so much of what was going on, was shocked that an innocent man might be suffering; those were things she had never expected of Albus Dumbledore. That he would clasp his hands together at his chest and whisper "How could I have allowed this?"

She tried to rally her prejudices; perhaps he was the master behind all of confusion, and was only regretting his spider web of lies was untangling.

Perhaps she was an idiot also. What he had said, the way he had said it, it was the reaction of a man shocked and ashamed of himself, not worried that a plan had gone awry. Albus Dumbledore had just realized he had not just been fooled about the Black case, but that he had evidently fooled himself. She went over to him, and slipped an arm around the tall, lank, figure. His hand automatically came up to her shoulder, and squeezed it gently, repeatedly.

She wondered; what was she going to do about Hermione? That girl couldn't find nice simple people to like or hate. Instead, her little princes turned out to half-starved scullions, and her Grey Eminences were evidently quite capable of making innocent mistakes and feeling pain when they discovered that fact out. Somehow, Hermione had to learn that people were complex, contradictory and essentially mixed in their vices and virtues. The trouble was, she could think of no one but Hermione who could teach her that lesson.

'D conceals facts.' Not burns down orphanages, steals from the blind, or never returns his library books. How do you learn how to deal with real, but difficult people who were only doing the best they could? Evidently, very slowly. By growing up, and accepting that others had their dark moments, inspired leaps, and endless daily grinds to get through. It wasn't fair; growing up takes so long! And how will you ever know when you've really done it?

Ω

It was hours later before even a garbled version of all that day's events was available in the Collective Wisdom of Hogwarts. As far as Hermione could determine the general consensus was this:

Alastor Moody, famed Auror, had come on a recruiting inspection of Hogwarts, and had noted down a few names.

The Defense Professor, Quirrell, having loaded up on Dutch courage, had gotten tired of being insulted by the students and had challenged Dumbledore to a duel. He had naturally lost. He had left the school in embarrassment immediately.

Peter Winterfield (Hufflepuff) and Dorothy Satterly (Gryffindor) had been caught in flagrante delicto, and were now obligated to marry.

The Terrible Twins had perfected (almost) a formula to turn animals to people (almost) and had experimented on their brother Ron's pet rat. Now they couldn't turn the rat back, and it had been taken to St. Mungo's for treatment (or to the Unmentionables for study).

As Dot Satterly swore up and down in the Common Room that Pete and she hadn't got that far yet, and from what Hermione knew about the reasons for Moody's visit to Hogwarts (a request from Mr. Weasley, a co-worker at the Ministry) and of the Twins actions, she would have placed little credence to the other items of news passing about the grapevine… except that Quirrell was in fact gone.

Ω

Professor Quirrell's absence left a gaping hole in the teaching schedule, as DADA was an essential part of the curriculum, and a required subject for a good part of the student body. Not to mention (but everybody did) that for those taking their OWLs and NEWTs it was the definite homestretch for preparing for those intimidating and certifying tests. As was to be expected, the Headmaster had a solution to the problem: himself.

Albus Dumbledore, though not by any means an expert (though his scores on the NEWT DADA were said to have been exceptional high) on the topic, took over teaching and reviewing the works of the Fifth Years (OWLs) and Seventh Years (NEWTs) who were taking their respective DADA tests. It was only for the tail end of April, all of May, and the little bit of June. He seemed to feel, from what those learning under him observed, almost as if he felt he was doing some sort of penance. But what could a hero like him have to feel guilty about?

For the other Years, since the Headmaster was still also doing his Headmaster's duties, as well as presiding over various judicial proceedings (which had seemingly reached a fever's pitch of closed sessions for him for some reason, him being a Chief Warlock), and still worked for the ICW (International Confederation of Wizards) as Supreme Mugwump, a slightly less effective system was put into effect.

Seventh Years, at least those who weren't of the nose-to-the-grindstone persuasion, had a traditional tendency to schedule their course loads a bit… lightly on the Academic side, but heavily on the Social side. A sort of precursor to the post-graduation custom of spending a year or so doing a grand Tour, or taking a year to mature before taking up the mantle of adult responsibilities. Those who had important family obligations, financial necessities, or were dedicated in perfecting their grasp of Magic had scheduled every moment possible with classes, back at the end of the previous year. It was thus the more dilettantish, lazy… and by this time of the year, bored… students who were available to supervise, or try their hand at teaching, the other Years. This did not work out in all regards as well as some of the more optimistic of the school teaching staff had hoped.

While there had been by no means a Gryffindor-Slytherin détente in general (no matter how the Sorting Hat had implored at the beginning of the Term), the wary respect of Malfoy and Potter had at least meant that active challenges on a House vs House basis had not been common among the First Years. But, both of those Years being effectively pariahs in their respective Houses had meant that that the normal means of internal House discipline, done mostly by example by the elders of each location, had never been properly kept up. For the Gryffindors this was less important, as the girls naturally broke up into two groups (Hermione and the Others) who had a good deal of respect for each other, and regarded their dorm mates as the most desirable of subjects for their various experimental studies and treatments. For the boys, there was the Longbottom, Potter, Weasley group, and the Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan Duo, which tended to work more the cultural and artistic sides of the street. Being, after all, a Wizarding street, there were enough sides for any number of groups to be employed.

But the Slytherin First Year… ah, another story entirely! This year it wasn't the Lions (often thought of as competitive and bumptious) who were unable to find peaceful ways of settling their differences. Instead the Snakes had jelled into two mutually-loathing offensive/defensive pacts that snarled at each other whenever the House Head was not supervising them. The normal discipline of the upper Years was not effective due to a number of factors, not least was the resentment that the long string of House Cup victories was going to broken due to the little twerps being ill-bred, hot-tempered, and so disgustingly obvious in everything they did. With the breakdown of this vital source of continuity the fractured social order of Slytherin could not heal, and the Malfites (as they were known: Draco, Greg, Vince, Pansy, and Millicent) were in constant opposition, sometimes breaking out into serious hexes, to the extent those were known to First Years, with the Knotters (Ted, Blaise, Daphne, Tracy, and Sally). Not only was there a constant slow bleeding away of House Points when their tiffs were observed by the Prefects of other Houses (or Professors who didn't teach Potions) but in several cases the actual quality of their school work suffered from the constant low-level hostilities. After all, it's hard to do your best when you must be constantly on guard lest your eyelids be permanently glued shut, or your very quill ignite in your hand!

Combine that with a regularly-scheduled class that was sometimes completely unsupervised, or very sketchily so by an uninterested fellow student, and beyond the taking of the roll at the class start there was certain to be major deviations from the putative class curriculum. If the particular substitute doing DADA duty that day thought it was amusing to teach the agitated students certain hexes beyond the normal effectiveness for beginners… things could become vicious. Sometimes the faction fights didn't stay confined to the DADA classroom, but spilled out into the corridors of the school (to the Potions Professor's dismay and embarrassment), and innocent bystanders became involved. Of whom none was more innocent than Hermione Jean Granger.

Ω

"Explain to me again exactly how I got involved in all of this?" asked Hermione to the ash-blond boy who was crouched besides her behind the two toppled and stacked suits of armor in the corridor.

"Thou art too full of the milk of human kindness," Draco Malfoy replied, showing off one of his carefully rehearsed bon mots. He'd had to learn them as showpieces for the earlier parts of little political dinners or parties, for before he was hustled off to bed. And he now saw no reason not to show them off on every occasion he could; it made no sense to just let all that rote learning go to waste. "And you're too much of a Gryff to let me go down outnumbered when I'm helping a fair damsel in distress."

"Pansy is a fair damsel?" Hermione asked as she flinched back from a spell from a masked and cowled figure in the dim second floor (West Wing) hallway. She looked behind them to where the girl was lying protected by their bulk, as well as that of the armor suits. There was a nasty bruise rising on her forehead.

Draco acknowledged there was some of the justice in her question. "Well… she is distressed; you have to grant me that. And it was all a misunderstanding too, this time. It was Milly who snuck the dye into Greengrass's shampoo. It was a joke, for Merlin's sake. Greengrass, green hair. All right, not exactly ready for the stage or anything, but it'll grow out!"

"Together!"

With that they both rose far enough to send hexes hurtling down the corridor; his a Jelly Legs (hoping to hit an arm and make wand control impossible), hers one of her best Stinging Hex, hoping to break the spirit of her enemies by pain and terror (on a very small scale). There was a shout, and in the gloom they could see two figures dragging off a third. The sound of violent retching was heard echoing down their way.

"I think that was yours; I imagine a Jelly Legs to the head would have all sorts of nasty effects."

Draco smirked, "It's all in the placement."

Hermione looked at now battered suits of armor; somehow they'd have to get those things back up onto their little raised stands. She then noticed an actual fresh and shiny groove in one of the arm thingies; someone had been taking the whole thing too far it looked like. She pointed it out to Malfoy; he gave a low whistle.

"Somebody had a healthy breakfast this morning. And I'm glad that I wasn't in the way of that bit of fun and foolery."

"Give me a hand on getting these suits back in place, and then we can get Pansy down to the Infirmary. How'd you get caught like this, anyway? Usually you're too slippery to ambush."

At this point a blush spread over Malfoy's very fair complexion. It wasn't as if he had asked to be born beautiful!

"Pansy distracted me. Wasn't paying as much attention as usual, so they snuck up on us."

"So you were snogging Pansy and lost track of the time?"

"She was trying to snog me! The girl doesn't know the meaning of the word 'No'! We're not even in Second Year and she wants a 'relationship' of some sort. Well, I'm going to play the field for a while, not get involved in the first opportunity that comes along.

"Father warned me that things like this might happen. I laughed, the more fool I."

"So Pansy has designs on your pure, white, body? It must be a curse, looking as you do."

As they levitated the suits back to their proper places Draco pondered that, and then gave a grudging nod.

"And that's not to mention the bloodline and money. I just wish she kept her adoration to a dignified level, and left me a little room to grow. Like you do."

"What!" came out as a screech.

Draco began to laugh. Potter was right about how to wind her up.

"I'll take the feet, you take the head, and we'll get her down to the Infirmary fast enough to miss being late to any classes. Ready, my admirer from afar?"

She was spluttering as they moved Pansy down to where her bruises and concussion could be treated. Draco felt a good deal of contentment. He'd survived another bout of the Slytherin War, Pansy would be (hopefully) put in her place for a while, and he'd scored on Granger. And all that before lunch.

Ω

As she spelled her trunk up to the overhead luggage rack, Hermione Granger mused on the past school year. It had certainly been eventful, and only slightly fraught.

She had learned; oh, how she had learned. Spells and cantrips and potions and perhaps a little humility (as opposed to having a negative self-image). She now knew how to timidly fly a broom at moderate heights and barely moderate speeds. She now knew what Occlumency and Legilimency were, and now just needed to find some way of learning how to study two of the more esoteric disciplines in all Magic.

Pettigrew was out of her hands, though she was still very curious what was going on there. It had been over a month since the event, and nothing about it had turned up in _Daily Prophet_ or any other news source or reputable rumor. Even Mr. Weasley had been unable to answer his sons' requests for information. That certainly indicated that Pettigrew was unlikely to be a real hero. Still… there was something smelling fishy there.

On the bright side, she was helping and training Harry Potter. And Ron Weasley and Neville Longbottom too; it was a sort of a package deal. They were helping and training her also, an unexpected benefit.

She had friends. Boys-who-were-friends and Girls-who-were-friends. Real ones, finally. That alone would have made Hogwarts the best place she had ever been. She even had smart and interesting… rivals? Competitors, perhaps. The Malfoy-Bulstrode team had nipped in to be best in Potions at the end of the year. Neville had Herbology sewed up and going away. In Charms she and Harry were tied, while despite a certain… chilliness between her and the Transfiguration Professor, Hermione had managed to eke out the highest grade for the Year. Terry Boot had managed to butter up the teacher enough in Astronomy to nose ahead of her (she wondered if she was being unfair with that assessment though; he really was very good with his calculations). As far as DADA, Flying, and the History of Magic… this year nobody could take them seriously, anyway. Probably Harry and Malfoy would have split the honors, if there had been a real way of judging.

They never had discovered what was involved in the **Gringotts **robbery, or if it was really what Fluffy had been guarding in the castle. At least when they had gone by his cottage to say goodbye yesterday to Hagrid they had seen Fluffy out back by the vegetable gardens. It had been cruel, she had thought, to keep a big thing like that cooped up indoors all the time; now they looked very happy, barking cheerfully and wagging their joint tail.

She, and Fred and George, were still in the dark about Horcrux lore, but until she was able to get back into the restricted section of the school library Hermione was certain she'd be unlikely to find out more. The Twins had said they would be pumping their dad on the subject, and what he didn't know, he probably knew someone who did. It was odd; the Twins and Ron really admired their father, while Percy seemed to be faintly embarrassed by him. Mr. Weasley seemed quite intelligent and with an active mind to Hermione…

Dumbledore (if he was indeed, 'D') certainly did conceal facts. In fact he had been dodging the inquiries about Pettigrew from the small circle at Hogwarts that was in the know about his… capture… detection? In fact, he had sworn (but not with a real and full Wizard's Oath) all those involved to keep quiet about the whole thing, and to deflect any inquires about Ron's now officially dead rat. Was that the fate that Pettigrew had suffered?

While Ron and she had gotten more excited as the Summer Vacation came closer, Neville and Harry had got more quiet, and in Harry's case, almost morose. At least Nev had opened up enough to tell her that he was more than a little weary of having to be on his best manners and waste valuable days he could have been outdoors attending various obligatory social functions. He liked the idea of a break from school, but perhaps they could get together sometime during the summer and have fun, he suggested. She had gotten his address and promised to try to arrange that.

Harry had become, when he wasn't trying to be artificially cheerful, silent. Almost cringing. Hermione, the girl with all the questions and no ability to hold back from asking them about schoolwork, hadn't been able to bring herself to do more than a "do you want to talk about things, Harry? Do you have any summer plans?" She knew to her core that she should have said or done something more, but she just couldn't probe any deeper at his unhappiness. At least he had seemed eager for her to write to him, so she must not have offended him too badly.

Perhaps, when he wouldn't have to endure the intimacy of a face-to-face conversation, he would be able to let things out. Perhaps.

Ω

On the trip down to London, the Slytherin situation was handled (perhaps stifled was a better word) by having Prefects outside of each of the compartments the factions of First Years were in, with another on full time duty outside the washroom in that car to prevent… unpleasantness. At least it allowed passersby to be safe from randomly cast hexes, or potions with (due to their hasty and inexperienced brewers) unknowable side effects.

The Gryffindor First Years demurely played Exploding Snap, or chatted, or exchanged visits to friends in other compartments or carriages.

When the train unloaded at the station, Neville and the Weasleys were picked up by their respective families. Hermione got to see Lady Augusta Longbottom, and she was certainly every inch the eccentric Edwardian Grande Dame, the eccentric part being due to the ornamental bird on her hat being a vulture (species indeterminate) which might just have been still alive. The Weasley family reunion was very much more exuberant, and involved Harry and her being introduced to Mrs. Weasley and a shy young girl who seemed unable to talk, at least to Harry. From the way the girl (Ginny) peeked around the comforting bulk of her mother Hermione had the suspicion that here was someone else who had read a few too many things printed in the popular press about The Boy Who Lived. Before going off of Platform 9 ¾ Hermione tried to assure her that, "He's really just Harry; very nice person. A bit thick sometimes, but always pretty solid. If you talk to him plain, he'll enjoy it." But by the time Harry and she had gone out into the Muggle world Ginny hadn't yet broken out of her shell.

On the other side (which she now felt should be labeled clearly The Other Side), she saw Harry met by a large, over-heavyset man, who seemed both gruff and embarrassed to be seen with the boy. He acted just this side of attracting a passerby's attention for unnecessary roughness. Hermione was frowning as her father swooped down on her and picked her up with a great twirling spin and hug. By the time she was back on her feet both of her parents could tell there was something wrong.

"It's about Harry, I'll tell you about it later. I'm going to write him letters get to the bottom of things this summer. I have to."

She didn't expect, that when her family got back from their two week wanderings through Spain and Portugal, that all three of the letters she had sent to him would be waiting for her back at the house, with the word "Refused!" hand written across the address in a forceful feminine hand.

The letters had all been sent by the Muggle post; she had picked up enough from Harry to know that forcible reminders of magic would be unwelcome at the Dursley residence. How cruel must his relatives be to cut him off from all contacts with his friends, even by post? To find the answer to that Hermione decided that it was past time that her mother and she had another Girls' Day Out. After all, Little Whinging was barely twenty miles away, and the weather was predicted to be delightful for the next few days.

Ω

The Dursley house wasn't bad, Jean Granger decided. It was just that it was so very like all the others on the street that made it seem such a sterile thing. The grounds were nice; the grass very green and just the right height, everything due to be pruned or trimmed was done just so. Very much confirmation of Hermione's tales of Harry Potter being given hordes of chores to do around the place, especially yard work.

Jean didn't let Hermione run up to the front door immediately, but made the girl accompany her as they circled the block, walking and thinking. Hermione wondered what was going on in her mother's head. Mother was always given the behaviorally difficult patients at the Granger practice. While no match for her husband's business acumen, much less her daughter's facility for patterns and numbers, she was well capable of being a social puppeteer. Only the fact that she basically found jerking people around to be stupid and boring had prevented her from having gone into politics. Instead, she soothed frightened or confused people in pain, and felt that having saved her husband from having a stroke from having to deal with such hysterics made her contribution to the practice one of the essential factors in its success. Fred certainly agreed, and enjoyed showing his appreciation by doing the thing women truly wanted. He did the cleaning up around the house.

With a faintly shark-like smile on her face, Jean Granger went back to their auto and drove her daughter to a nearby shopping street. Into a stationary store and out in a minute, she thrust a birthday invitation into Hermione's hand.

"Now, write a sad little note on the card, demanding to know what's wrong, why Harry didn't answer your earlier invitations to your party, which you will note is this Friday."

"But Mum, my birthday isn't till the middle of September, and this is July 12th!"

"Dear, what are the odds of Mrs. Dursley knowing that?"

Ω

By the time they were back at the Dursley residence, Hermione was feeling as if she was somehow on a raft (without pole or paddle) and rushing down a rapids to an unknown destination. It was not a sensation she was used to; in fact it was one she was far more likely to induce in others. It was with considerable relief that after they had parked the car and walked the final thirty yards or so to Number 4 that she saw on the side of the house a ladder, with Harry Potter up at the top hammering away at some no doubt essential item of roofing or guttering. Hermione quickly ran to stabilize the ladder, to Harry's surprise when it stopped wobbling. Jean accepted this change in her scheme calmly; Hermione would have been a volatile element in her original plan (but she could hardly leave her daughter to swelter in the car!) that might have gone off at the wrong moment.

When Petunia Dursley answered the doorbell she saw a well (if casually) dressed woman in her early forties standing on the stoop with an envelope in her hand, and an innocent smile on her face. Petunia dearly hoped that the Missionaries weren't back again this year. It was very hard not to be rude in refusing to allow them to proselytize for hours at end; almost as hard as it was to give them the boot instead. It was only later that Petunia realized that she would have had less trouble if Jean Granger had been a relatively harmless recruiter and fund-raiser for the 666th Church of Satan, Deformed.

"Hello, I'm Jean Granger. My daughter Hermione's one of Harry's schoolmates, and as we were in the area anyway I just felt we should drop in and clean up a minor difficulty we've been having with the Post recently. You see, the local office must be having some sort of problem, perhaps with special summer-time only employees, as our letters inviting Harry to Hermione's birthday party later this week have been returned.

"When I saw the boy up doing some of his chores I immediately realized what the problem was."

Petunia braced herself for the coming argument. Another nosy do-gooder trying to interfere in her life by picking on the one thing in it that she considered both wrong and unavoidable.

The woman continued, "With your husband away all the time… I understand he holds a very responsible position… it's very difficult for you to give adequate supervision to a child with such an obvious slovenly nature. While he seems competent in highly structured things, mowing and such, he takes out his childish resentments by being as unkempt as he can be.

"After all, you and your husband provide him with shelter, food and clothing! He has nothing to struggle for, everything is provided for him. So he does little acts of adolescent rebellion, it just comes with the age I expect! Still, now is the best time to nip such behavior in the bud, otherwise people will totally misunderstand the situation, and think you don't care how you present yourself in the neighborhood. "

Petunia protested: "We try; we tell him how lucky he is to get everything given him. We try to make sure he has his days filled with meaningful things to do, but he just doesn't appreciate it!"

Mrs. Granger picked up her obvious cue. "It's all because you do things so smoothly, he doesn't see the connection between your generosity and all the hard work that has to go on to provide it. If he had to pay for things out of his own pocket, with his own hard-earned cash, he'd quickly figure out that he should take care of his things, and that he'd get more respect if he kept himself spruced up!"

"Oh Mrs. Granger… may I call you Jean? With our son in his own school, a very selective and expensive one, we simply don't have a lot of money on hand. And it's not as if _his people_ have provided a pound for all the years we've had him here. We do the best we can, but his… nature… means that so much was being broken some years that we were absolutely frantic about how to get things repaired or replaced. It's gotten better now, but still, we're absolutely drained… "

For a moment there was silence, as the line had been tossed, and the fish was deciding to take the bait. Mrs. Granger ('Jean' now to Petunia) either set the hook, or snapped up the worm, depending on your viewpoint.

"Well, if the state of your yard is mainly his work…" Petunia gave a quick nod at that. "You obviously have at least taught him that when he does work he should be neat and thorough. In the state of your exterior, so lovely and well planned, it shouldn't need all that much maintenance to keep it up to the neighborhood standards.

"I'm rather embarrassed to say that neither my husband nor I are any great hands at household things, or gardening, and poor Hermione has a positive Brown Thumb. Our place has a sort of jungle look to it right now, we've not caught up with what we should have done while we were away. Perhaps if, for just a bit this summer, a few days a week perhaps… "

Things were swiftly arranged thereafter. The Dursleys, to show they were part of the program, would give Potter bus fare for the three or four (or five days if he could arrange it) days he would be working each week that summer at the Grangers. Arriving early, leaving late, and receiving lunch there; being paid each week, and then being forced to go right to the shops and use his wages to upgrade his wardrobe to more acceptable standards for a decent, normal, boy. And yes, he could go to Hermione's party.

It must be said that Potter, on being informed that he would be responsible for the appearance of two homes, took it all without a whimper. He accepted, on actually seeing the Granger home that he might have to fiddle around to get it in shape for two or three mornings a week, before a solid lunch and being brought by Hermione down to the local pool. On the days that there was nothing realistically worth doing he purchased new eyeglasses, clothing that fit, and built a comfortable but private perch for Hedwig in one of the large trees in the yard. He certainly did learn the value of money, but realized that he'd have to use something else to pay the Grangers back for arranging his work-release program. When forced to stay the day back on Privet Drive he was driven to make sure that that the Dursleys had no excuse to make him skip a day away in order to make up for any neglect of their verdant quarter acre.

The requirements of the Blood Wards that Albus Dumbledore had laid upon #4 Privet Drive so many years ago were satisfied by his regular return to his bed and meager supper (preceded by a rather hearty snack before leaving the Grangers each late afternoon), and until the beginning of August there was generally calm and happy sailing for all… except for Dudley who lacked an easily abused target that couldn't complain.

But few plans are perfect.


	8. Chapter 8

I do not own, or receive any benefit, from the Harry Potter Properties.

Palimpsest

Innocence of the Crime is No Excuse: Chapter 8

By Larry Huss

It was Harry Potter's fault, of course. Petunia knew that; just as she knew it wasn't anything he'd particularly done or had any control over. It was because something like this just had to happen sooner or later that she had never let herself succumb to those vagrant urgings to nurture the child that she had felt over the years. It was lucky that Harry wasn't there at the time, or she didn't know what she could have done to control Vernon, what with Dudley's injuries. As it was, she was just glad that she had kept her wits about her and given the Granger residence a telephone call before the boy was put on the bus to return home. It was the least, and most, she could do for him, and her family.

Ω

"Aunt Petunia said that some sort of magical beast got into the house and started to attack the family, screaming my name all the time! I thought there were some sort of Blood and Family protections in place; that was what I was told was the reason I had to stay there all summer! The Headmaster told me that they'd protect everyone there until I hit my majority! I mean, I haven't even slept away one night; surely that means I've been recharging the wards that are supposed to be there!"

Harry Potter was very alarmed by the nervousness the elder Grangers were unable to conceal. Coming over to the Grangers', pottering around the yard without endless and annoying criticism for a few mornings a week, and then spending most of the day acting like a kid on vacation had been about as good as Harry could imagine things could be. Now, if there really was some violent conspiracy sending hit-beasts out to get him, how could he put them in danger by staying there? What was worse, Hermione would certainly not be reasonable about him cutting out and trying to hide himself in London, or heading for the Continent and getting lost in the crowds. And as far as he could see, those were his best alternatives.

Instead he saw Hermione coming into the room with her wand in one hand, and Hedwig carefully balancing (with great attention not to dig her claws in) on her shoulder.

"I think I've got a plan," Hermione said. "The DMLE will either be getting to the Dursleys' soon, or will need to know about this thing soon anyway. So we preempt any confusion by sending them an owl note about the problem. Try going to the top, if we can.

"Hedwig, can you get to the Auror's headquarters real fast with a letter just addressed 'Auror's Headquarters, London'? I'm afraid we don't really know the exact street number or anything."

The white owl gave a confident hoot. Part of her training had included all the more basic governmental addresses; it was only the tricky private addresses that ever gave owls any problems.

With that a sheet of paper was quickly located, and Jean Granger (who had the most lovely handwriting) wrote out a short but clear accounting of the situation, and folded it as Hedwig was given a drink and some fortifying snacks to prepare her for her high-speed mission. It wasn't until the bird was out the window and on her way that Harry began to muse…

"What if there really wasn't anything happening back at Aunt Petunia's place after all, and she just called to get rid of me, or get me in trouble for being a… boy-who-called-wolf-caller?"

"Nonsense, "Hermione said firmly. "You said that being away and all you haven't been having nearly as much trouble there as usual this summer. Why would they start doing something complicated like that when you haven't been getting on each other's nerves? And if the Aurors investigate, instead of one of the… less efficient… offices of the Ministry they have means to find out if the Dursleys were setting you up."

Fred Granger gave a satisfied nod; his little girl was using her head. At the least the boy had three witnesses that could honestly swear under any oath that he hadn't done anything wrong, hadn't been at the place in question at the time, and had received the call in question. How much more did they have to do?

Ω

In the end their activities proved adequate. The Auror team sent to investigate; Auror William Savage and Intern-Trainee Nymphadora Tonks (on her first Investigation-Observation) were actually present at the Dursley place when the letter from the Improper Use of Magic Office came, listing a large number of infractions and accordingly summoning Harry Potter to appear for a Disciplinary Hearing the next day, unless the recipient signed the complaint, acknowledging guilt, and paid the indicated forfeit. The team investigated the premises thoroughly, confiscated the only wand present, and confirmed that there were traces of odd magic having been used there recently, and that the Muggles present (among other things) insisted that it was somehow involved with Harry Potter, and that the person in question was ruining their lives even when he wasn't there! Having collected the needed evidence, the team used Apparition to get to the current location of the person (confirmed by P. Dursley, Muggle) who had made the complaint to the Aurors' Office.

At the Granger residence, coffee in hand (though Intern-Trainee Tonks wondered what Senior Auror Moody would have done if offered food or beverage from someone involved in an investigation he was currently conducting), interviews were taken, and the aforementioned Potter and now-accessible Granger wands were tested to prove that they had not been used since the end of the last Hogwarts term. Intern-Trainee Tonks was assigned (as a further part of her training) to accompany/escort Potter and give testimony in the next day's Hearing. All-in-all, the Aurors left a good impression behind them at the Granger residence. The older Grangers were impressed by the courteous and efficient investigation. The younger Granger and Mr. Potter by the way that Intern-Trainee Tonks occasionally changed her hair color, height, facial features and body type. Hermione successfully begged to be allowed to accompany the pair the next day; after all, it was all to the good for a Muggleborn to be given a chance to see and appreciate the Majesty and Glory of Wizarding Justice (and Administration).

Ω

Harry slept over at the Grangers' place that night. Hermione decided that she either had to learn a copying spell, or else get a home computer. It was simply too much effort to get out letters about the exciting stuff going on to Fay and Kandice and Lav and Parvati and Ron and Neville and Tony and… In the end she sent missives to Lav, Neville, and Ron, with a request to spread the news as needed. This wasn't gossip, after all. It was Official Business with two government offices involved, and after all, Harry was one of their own. Harry made light of it all, saying he was used to people being mad at him for no good reason. But at breakfast that day he hardly ate a thing.

Tonks (she quickly made it clear that: 1- when they were in private they should just call her by her last name, and don't worry about the titles, and 2- if and when they ever learned her given name, that they should never use it or any of its abbreviations on pain of instant incineration) was punctual on picking them up, politely refusing an offer of a second breakfast or even just a beverage, and having them all at the Ministry Building in plenty of time.

Using that time as her mentor would have liked, she gave Harry three copies of her Report of his interview, had each read, signed, and dated with magical ink. Then she gave Harry one copy, telling him to never let the original get out of his control, and led them to the office of Mafalda Hopkirk, who was employed in the Improper Use of Magic Office, being particularly responsible for keeping underage magic users in terror of losing their wands for the most trivial of reasons. Tonks, having recently been young enough to be under Hopkirk's myopic scrutiny herself, was somewhat less than complimentary in describing the official's flexibility of outlook and nimbleness of wit.

"But you have to remember, it's the ones who deserve it the least and give you the most hassle are the ones you have to be politest to, and butter up the most."

Harry nodded at that. He'd noticed much the same at Hogwarts; in fact, his years at the Dursleys had, on being examined with a more mature eye, been an exercise in surviving by buttering up those who didn't deserve it. He decided he liked Tonks, whose one never-changing facial feature this morning had been a cheerful grin.

On entering Hopkirk's office the chances that they would be impressed by the Majesty of British Wizarding Government (something the foyer of the Ministry certainly promoted) quickly diminished. The place was small enough that the when the three visitors crowded in there was too little room for any chairs for them. The large desk and two never-ceasing automatic quills that kept on preparing notices on parchments that then floated themselves through the air to a tube leading to the Ministry Owl Roost, and the large Infinite Filing Cabinet in the corner, left little space for such niceties. The official occupant of the room was Mrs. Hopkirk, a shortish and slightly vague woman, who seemed surprised and almost flattered that someone had actually came to call on her, even though she had no idea why they were there. That one of her visitors was actually Harry Potter, a genuine celebrity, was enough to bring a nervous smile to her face.

She hadn't actually read the notice that had gone out the other day; sending such things was ordinarily done without her personal intervention by the automatic pens and mailing system. Her job was, primarily, to make sure that everything was filed, and to collect a salary for the job Uncle Timonathy had secured for her many years ago. The filing could have been done automatically also, but she'd never gotten the hang of the spells needed to get things properly alphabetized. The important thing about the job was it gave her a chance to get out of the house, meet people during tea break, and feel useful.

Tonks was disappointed to discover the source of so many letters that had led to her parents inflicting so many petty restrictions and punishments on her in her youth was in fact a spell that had been originally cast eighty years ago, and if the event at the Dursleys' hadn't involved so much magic used in such a short span of time, the automatic Hearing function wouldn't have been triggered at all. Evidently this rare occurrence was even more rarely protested, and a small fine (though a large chunk of pocket change for a young Wizard or Witch) was usually automatically levied, with no need for actual physical appearance, or even a Floo call to inconvenience any parents or officials. Tonks privately wondered if Auror Savage had just wanted her out of his hair for the morning when he had assigned her to dealing with the situation. Having someone who might mention to Moody any slight improprieties in procedure could have made him less than eager to be followed around for a few days by the slightly clumsy young Trainee-Intern who the feared and respected Senior Auror had taken under his wing.

As it was, Madam Hopkirk became slightly flustered at the physical presence of the party and tried to put up an officious front, but in the face of the official report from the Aurors, and Harry's charm offensive (Hermione wondered why he wasn't wearing designer clothing if he could be the Waif so well. The Dursleys must have hearts of flint.), she soon relented, taking his file out from the cabinet and quickly clearing it of every possible blot or smirch on his history and character. It made Hermione wonder; how did they know so much about what Harry had been doing, and did they have such a file on her?

Leaving an office now filled with honest satisfaction, its Mistress glad that she had cleaned up an injustice directed at a hero of the Wizarding world, the party wended its way down to the entrance to the Aurors' Department. There, Tonks told them to stay for a moment while she dashed in to check up on things. In a minute she was out with the news that her assigned partner for the day had already ducked out with a verbal command for her to 'Go out into the street, and keep an eye on it. Get a feel for the flow and ebb, like a real copper!' She'd also grabbed some cash from the tea money tin and had been given an order by the desk officer to be back with a load of pastries in time for the next tea break.

Five minutes later they were sitting at an outdoor table at a bakery/café in a cul-de-sac three streets away from the Ministry, with Tonks busily sipping at part of her daily requirement of coffee (with lots of cream and three sugars) and tearing into something that had almonds in several forms and raspberry jam in it. The two students had their own orders, courtesy of the Aurors: much the same for Hermione, but with Harry dealing with coffee (bitter and black) and some sort of long, dried, Italian thing he was dunking and nibbling. "I've hear about this. Always wanted to try it."

The sun was bright and Tonks was cheerful and chatty. "Finally glad to meet you Harry… you're one of my more famous, and definitely more respectable, relatives. How are the biscotti?"

At Harry's startled snort, and then an offer of a nibble on the other end (which she took up), Tonks continued: "Mum was read out of the Family Black when she married my Dad; he's a Muggleborn. Anyway, my grandmother was the sister of your great grandmother, if I've got it straight. So we're almost as closely related as I am to crazy Bellatrix Lestrange, who used to be a Black, and who's by now no doubt the Belle of Azkaban and chatting with my other relative, Sirius Black, the mass murderer and ohshit I'm sorry I brought that up."

"I've recently found out about Sirius Black, Tonks, certainly not your fault, and not talking about it won't change things," Harry said. Then he added a questioning tone into his voice.

"But, are we closely related… I mean for Wizards? I mean, Hermione once showed my some sort of relatives chart and it seems that I might be my own uncle or something also. And how come your hair changes colour and length so often, it happened to me once."

Hermione admired Harry for packing so much into such a short statement. He'd managed to reassure Tonks he wasn't sensitive about her relative, that he thought Wizarding intermarriage made everyone a cousin (at least) to everyone else, and he had also broken the ice about asking how she did that body/face changing thing she did.

Tonks shot forward: "You did? You must have gotten it from the Black side of the family… thought I was the only Metamorphmagus around. It's a natural talent, like being able to touch the tip of your nose with your tongue. See? How much can you do? Or maybe I should ask, how do you control it so well? I sometimes go half crazy trying to keep one face when I'm excited."

"Well, just the once my hair grew back overnight after a bad, looking-like-a-convict-haircut. So, it's a natural talent?"

"And sometimes curse," she replied. "Imagine going out on a date with a guy and having him ask you to put on the face and figure of some other girl he knows. Does not lead to meaningful long-term relationships. At least it hasn't inclined me that way yet."

Hermione nodded, "I can see how that can put a damper on things. Take note of that, Harry; never ask a girl to wear her hair like another you both know, or to stuff her bra, either."

"Having her take it off in her own name is always in style though," Tonks said, enjoying Harry's increasingly scarlet-faced blush.

"Tonks," Hermione said desperately, trying to rescue Harry before he did more than drop his biscotti into his coffee and watch it completely dissolve. "How did Hopkirk, or at least her quills, know anything about what happened at Harry's place, and why did he get blamed for it?"

"Ah," Tonks said, putting a professional face (for a few seconds, anyway) on. "If a kid's accidental magic gets serious enough to be noticed and worked on by the Obliviators, a file's made on the child. That gets shipped over to Hopkirk's office when they get a wand, and that's when a Trace is put down for them."

Both Hogwarts students grew very intensely interested at that point and Tonks reveled in having their complete attention. "It's really just a simple combination spell; it detects the use of magic in the vicinity of its target, and sends a report to the quills to write up a notice so that the parents know their kids are in trouble with the Misuse Office. Of course, I was one of the unlucky few who's magical parents didn't use much magic around the house, and between that and my Meta talents doing random appearances I stood out from the background enough that the Trace kept on going off for me. I sometimes think it was the Black family influence; they never accepted Mum marrying Dad, and liked making her life miserable. Most Magical families don't get a notice unless the kid does something pretty far from where their supposed to be, in the Ministry opinion."

"I thought…" Hermione blurted.

"Oh, the Trace is placed when you start real magical schooling, and when you hit seventeen it comes off by itself. Until then it's assumed that the magical parents keep things under control, as long as the magic is happening around their home it's assumed it's theirs. No one can really know, of course, but making assumptions saves a lot of effort, doesn't it?

"There can be fines, but the first few notices are usually just really warnings. The official penalties can be pretty brutal, actually, but they're never followed up on. To be honest, it's mainly to help keep kids under control, and to bully the Muggleborns into not practicing. In most magical families the kids practice when they're out of school under their parents' supervision… they say… and get better at casting over the summers, while the Muggleborn get rusty. Every little bit helps to keep Wizarding Britain solidly back in the Middle Ages. Yes, Hermione, I remember where you come from. Consider this a bit of friendly background briefing, to let you know what the real world is like.

"Hmm… Hermione… isn't Granger a lot better name to go under? Stronger, isn't it?" Tonks said, her head tilting slightly and her voice getting meditative.

"Like Tonks?" asked Harry dryly.

"Exactly!" the Trainee-Intern agreed. "We'd have a happier world if parents could be banned from giving their innocent daughters ridiculous names that will haunt them the rest of their lives. And remember what will happen if you find out and use mine."

Ω

After Tonks brought them back to the Granger home, it was decided that Harry had better stay over another night; Vernon Dursley had called the Granger dental practice, and by random chance had been connected to Fred Granger, rather than Jean. The upshot was that after the shouting's echos finally died down it seemed that it would probably not be a wise thing for Harry to return home quite yet.

That night after diner (which Harry insisted he help prepare and clean up afterwards), Hermione noticed he spent a lot of time at the kitchen table with a pad, pencil, and a copy of a local newspaper. He seemed worried about something, not nearly as happy as she thought he would be at not being back at #4 Privet Drive. He brushed off her inquiries, just saying Tonks had started him thinking about the real world. That didn't satisfy her, but badgering someone in his situation seemed a bit cruel, so she decided that tomorrow; with a well rested mind she'd wheedle it out of him instead.

That next morning ,Fred Granger, the first one out of the front door while turning his head to say goodbye to his daughter, nearly stumbled to his great injury at the first step he made to the outside world. While not a baby in a basket, there was at least as clear sign of rejection waiting there. Perched on the front step were a wizard's chest, a large (currently dented) bird cage, and two paper bags full of clothing that evidently (from their rumpled state) had been tried on and in some cases ripped when they failed to fit someone.

Fred cheerfully hauled everything inside, yelled out to Harry that they'd work things out that evening, and that Jean should get a move on, for root-canals won't wait. Jean left the house with a far more concerned look on her face, but she had to admit that there were people in pain scheduled to be treated that morning. Hermione would just have to do her best dealing with her friend. At least being evicted from the Dursley house wouldn't mean he was losing anything of value.

Ω

As Harry methodically began to pack everything that had been dropped off neatly into his trunk, ignoring Hermione's increasingly strident questions on what the bloody hell he was doing in not just going up to the guest room and using the dresser in the room, it became evident that there was a certain lack of communication going on between the two friends. Finally Harry, deciding that someone had to be the reasonable one, turned and explained himself to Hermione.

"Even Dumbledore's protections couldn't keep me safe, now that I'm really out in the Wizarding world and no longer a myth. If the Dursley place isn't safe, and doesn't want me, do you think I'll let your folks put themselves at risk for me any longer? What kind of protective runes and wards do you have about this place, Hermione? How much could either one of us do anyway, with the Ministry ready to mess you over for being Muggleborn, and me attracting who-knows-what kind of things? I know that the beast hasn't found me here in two days, so if I keep moving I should be safe until Hogwarts opens again. I might be safe there; at least it kept me safe all last year."

Hermione ran over and slammed down the lid of the trunk and grabbed the key out of its lock. Before he could stop her she was half-way up the stairs, and heading to her room. He was after her as soon as the shock wore off, but racing Kandice around the corridors and up the staircases of Hogwarts had done her a world of good in the speed department, and by the time he was almost about to catch up her door was closed and locked behind her, and he heard her muffled voice. "Just give me some time, Harry, just a little time. There must be an answer, we'll find it. And don't you dare try to run away; I'll never abandon you, never!"

She didn't see him double over, as if he had been hit in the stomach. She didn't see the look of pain on his face, as he finally sat down in the corridor outside her door. He was so tempted to leave, to avoid risking another person who cared about him… but if he just cut and ran… it would be so cruel to her, one of his real friends. He'd give her a little while, until she came to her senses and realized that there was nothing that she could do, a mere Second Year, against the sort of people that sent killer beasts that could slide through the protections applied years before by a master.

Harry's heart was overruling his head. If it had been the other way around he'd have remembered that Hermione Jean Granger was never merely anything.

It was, however, almost a full hour later that he finally heard her voice come hesitantly through the door again.

"Harry? Could I please borrow Hedwig again?"

Ω

It would have been unfair to imply that Auror Savage neglected the essential items of his duty in any manner. In regard to the Dursley Case, he consulted with the foremost Forensic Thaumaturgists the Department had on retainer about the odd magical residues he had detected at the Muggle house, examined the copies of the memories he had extracted from the Muggles, analyzed the photos of the scratches and bruises on the unpleasant Muggle boy, and not least he used his experience as a trained investigator who wasn't afraid to actually think about unpleasant things.

And that was why, when his report was handed in to his superior, it was quickly passed up the chain of responsibility evasion, until it reached the desk of Madam Bones herself. Head of the Aurors, and a woman afflicted with a genuine dedication that meant she couldn't bring herself to evade, delay, or ignore William Savage's report that some medium sized and articulate magical creature had attacked the residents of #4 Privet Lane, while screaming at the top of its falsetto voice that Master Lucius had promised that "Harry Potter will be ruindid," and that "Harry Potter will be done-in at King's Cross" while ransacking the boy's room and assaulting the Muggle residents of the place with both physical and magical attacks. It was all she could do not to convince herself to put a permanent bodyguard detail on the boy, who had also been threatened on that occasion to be, among other things, "de-balled and led around by his wedding-tackle," by the mysterious Lucius.

Of course, to any magical copper worth the coffee to keep them awake there wasn't much mysterious about Master Lucius. Ever since the (to some) annoying Arthur Weasley had mentioned that there seemed entirely too many Dark Artifacts and enchanted objects turning up lately, there had been a growing sentiment among the members of the DMLE that it was past time to do another of their periodic sweeps of the most likely locations and persons to be either creating or harboring such things. Certainly at least one Lucius was on the short list for such an examination, and it had been ages since Malfoy Manor had had its cobwebs blown away.

But even the evil can have friends, at least as long as the money holds out. If one of those was in a position to alter the schedule of raids, and send a bit of notice to their 'friends' a good deal of trouble could be avoided . In Evading the Long Arm of the Law, as in Comedy, timing is everything.

Ω

Hermione missed Harry. Having him over almost every day of the week had been practically perfect. Only being able to do magic safely would have been needed to have made it so. But, as Dad had been heard to say, "Needs must when the Devil drives," and it certainly seemed as if the Devil was speeding after Harry this summer. At least Hedwig was very decent about their irregular correspondence, and where he was at least he could get his wand out of storage and keep working on his speed and precision. She was going to have to be content (again!) with working on Potions in her shack in the backyard (which had somehow become her responsibility to mow), and studying the academic texts for the coming year. She made it a test of will not to go on and work on Potions Years 3-5, nor to do more than prepare a simple computer program so that when she did start to do Arithmancy in her third year it would be already prepared to handle the symbolic substitutions. With all this mature self-control grinding away at her, it was a good thing that she had Lockhart.

Not in the flesh, of course. Gilderoy Lockhart, hero and member of numerous societies dedicated to virtue and the elimination of Dark Forces, had luckily written a number of books, seven of which were assigned as texts for DADA for the coming year. Hermione felt, as they were written in a narrative style, that she wasn't really cheating on her vow to be less over-prepared by reading them for mere pleasure, even if they were, technically, text books. So she did... three times.

Mum only got through the first two, before she turned to other literature. "Too episodic," she said. She commented that for a relatively young man, he certainly had been moving around a lot. Dad didn't get into Lockhart at all; "He smiles too much" was his carping criticism. Somehow… somehow that struck a disturbing note, but one look at Gilderoy's honest and beaming face (five times winner of a Most Charming Smile award!) and Hermione's semi-formed doubts disappeared. The only thing that prevented her from making a trip to Diagon Alley on the day when he was doing a book signing was that she'd already arranged for a weekend up at the Alton Towers amusement park with Nev and Ron. Ron's little sister, by some sort of Weasley familial diplomacy, ended up going along also. That made it convenient; they'd planned on staying overnight anyway, and renting a Girl's room and a Boy's room at a nearby motel was already in the budget.

Ω

"Aahhh!" commented Ron Weasley as the car he was in hit the third inversion loop of the rollercoaster. He hadn't thought that there would be much thrill in sitting down in a box on wheels, with a great-big protective bar to hold you in place, and then just go on a fixed track for a few moments. On his third trip on this particular ride that day (the favorite of the three he had sampled) he was broadminded enough to admit he was mistaken. Not being in control, not having to occupy your mind with steering something, like say a broom, made the experience somehow different, and much more exciting. And it was practical, also. He was drying off splendidly from the soaking he had gotten on the water-based ride he had been on earlier that day. Silly Ginny, going on the flume type rides over and over again. She was missing out on the best parts of the Park. Girls, even Hermione, were so odd.

When the ride was over Ron decided not to get on line for it again, and wended his way, staggering a little, as his sense of balance hadn't quite got itself sorted out properly, to the official rallying point for the expedition. As it was also a snack and beverage stand he had no trouble locating it; the crowd purchasing lemonade and that fluffy sugar stuff was hard to miss. He wondered how Harry was doing… too bad he had to miss this experience. Still, at least he was safe; the thought of something invading the Burrow (the Weasley clan's home) had really been disturbing to Mum. Father hadn't upgraded the protective Wards for years, or even properly charged them. Ever since Hermione's letter had reached Ron, and been discussed over the kitchen table by the whole family present, and the paperwork filed, it had been the daily task of all the junior members of the family present to rectify the situation.

All of it was legal, too; officially Mum or Dad were supervising the work, even if only checking up that no one was hexing anyone, or joking around. The Twins, and actually Percy also, were a bit miffed that they'd never been allowed to do stuff like that previously. It almost felt that in previous years they hadn't been trusted to do serious things. Or that the parents had been all too happy to have a quiet time without the possibility of a family fight, this time with wands out.

Dad should have known about this dodge… should have stretched the rules enough that his own flesh and blood could wring every possible bit of advantage out the bendable rules as was possible, but he'd just taken the easy way out. If he'd just let them get to work at the beginning of the summer Harry could have holed up with them, and not hidden himself in whatever cave or cell he was being forced to stay in until Hogwarts was open to him again.

There the girls were! Well, the girls and Mrs. Granger; all of them soaked and giggling and he could swear singing some pirate song that they'd heard in a part of the park they'd gone through earlier. Mmmm, perhaps Mrs. Granger could be hit up for a little something to tide him over until dinnertime? Only one way to find out.

Ω

In the darkness, Hermione heard Ginny roll over on the other side of the bed. Mother was in the other bed in the room, claiming her size gave her claim to a larger space to toss and turn in. Ha! She had been so exhausted by the day's activities that she'd been out and motionless as soon as they'd gotten into the room after supper. That had given Hermione a little more chance to talk with Ginny Weasley in a less inhibited manner, at least on Ginny's part.

"He really has a scar?"

"Oh, yes. Didn't you ask Ron about that anytime before?"

"Ron says he never noticed, that boys don't care about things like that, and look at people for scars."

Hermione remembered Ron checking out Harry's forehead, and admiring the scar there several times during their ride up to Hogwarts. She wondered how it would have been to have an older brother to tease and misinform her.

"Harry doesn't like to show it off or anything. People asking to see it, like tourists gawking at a national monument, aren't his favorites. He's not shy, or anything. He just doesn't want to be put on exhibition."

"He's very brave, isn't he?"

"Well, yes. Of course. He just doesn't show off or anything, though. He's got a wicked sense of humor too. He doesn't mess around like the Twins, but he has his moments. The one of us with hidden depths, though, is Neville. I think since he's got his new wand he's been involved in more of their stunts than any of the rest of us. Making up for lost time, I expect."

"Longbottom's too clingy. He's always trying to hold my hand or something. Trying to butter me up. He's too fat and dull."

Ginny, being a bit sensitive, suddenly felt an undercurrent of tension in the room. Almost a feeling of danger. What was that about, could it have been something she'd said? But what?

Hermione's voice was a little bit tight sounding. "He's getting taller, and growing into his weight. He's awfully strong, too. All the outdoors work he does is good for that. And he's far from dull."

"He's got no personality, he's just bland."

Hermione reminded herself that slapping someone's face clean off was not the way to have a holiday.

"I think you're confusing nice with bland. Good night."

"If you like him so much, maybe you should just go out with him."

It took Hermione a minute to get everything into focus, and then she saw what was going on. Ron had warned her, once, that his sister had a crush on Harry. Once more, she realized, she should have been paying a lot more attention to what Ron was saying. Evidently little Ginevra thought that Harry was going out with Hermione, romantically, and wanted to clear out the competition for the Boy-Who-Lived's-Girlfriend slot. Or at least moan about it. She didn't know whether to laugh or snatch the little idiot bald.

"And by the way, Ginny, Harry doesn't have any girlfriends. He finds the ones that come after him tend to be disappointed he's merely a great guy, and not the illusion of Potter the Magnificent they're imagining."

There! Hermione had been mature, and not stuffed the smallest Weasley into a trash can for her childish cruelty (to Neville) and greed (in wanting to own Harry). With that, she turned over and went to sleep. The trip would be over soon, she would spend most of what was left of it with Ron or Nev, and when she was up at Hogwarts it would be easy enough to ignore the little leech. There was no reason to get violent.

Well, hardly any.

Ω

Hermione had wondered why she had been asked to bring two boxes (contents-3 each) of table tennis balls for the trip up to Hogwarts. Now, in the railway compartment, the world's lightest and least damaging Quidditch Bludgers were bouncing off the floor, ceiling, walls and passengers as they were levitated to blinding speeds and ricocheted (more points for more preliminary bounces) into their targets. Hermione, Neville, Harry, Ron, and Kandice Kellah were laughing hysterically as they called their shots and targets. It was impossible to really keep any sort of score, but that wasn't what the game was about in any case. It was perfect non-lethal mayhem and totally bloodless carnage… and the way Pansy Parkinson screeched when she came into the compartment unannounced in no way was due to any actual injury.

It was true that not only was her less than welcomed face instantly the target of a direct shot by every ping-pong ball currently in play (5), but that someone she had been very cruel to verbally all last year managed to get off a quick weak Confundus Charm that scrambled her usually normally Slytherin wits just slightly, but she wasn't really damaged. It merely made the prepared speech she'd been practicing come out a little slurred, and in circumstances far more public than she had planned.

"Made these… made these for you Potter. New year, bygones gone and all. Peace and all… bye!"

With that, she managed to steer her arm well enough to toss a small cloth wrapped (blue ribbon tied) bundle to Harry (no challenge for him to catch it despite the lack of warning), and stagger off up the train corridor. The wrong way for her destination as it happened, but in her state she couldn't tell. She was off to claim her prize, that someone… someone… she'd been promised him anyway, even if she couldn't remember exactly who had done the promising. Now all that Potter had to do was act like a stupid Gryffindor and everything in her plan (so much better and faster than the one that… someone… had told her to use) and she would be able to claim her silver-haired darling.

"That was unexpected." Ron said. "I'd say toss the stuff into the Lake, if I didn't like the Squid so much."

Kandice was curious: "What is it, anyway?"

Harry unwrapped the package, and displayed the contents to all. Inside the decorated linen was a handful of translucent yellow blobs about the size of a finger-joint. He held a yellowish blob up to the light.

"I think these are Pansy's homemade lemon sherbets. Didn't know that she was so domestic. Hard to think of the pug faced girl as a kitchen type. I have an aunt, raises dogs, and they never seem to do much in the kitchen that doesn't require a shovel and mop to deal with afterwards."

"Well, "Hermione said, "they are sort of a peace offering. I think we should try them, and then spit them out the window or something if they're as good as I expect them to be."

No one made a motion to take her up on her gesture of peaceful disdain. She shrugged, reached over and took one, popping it into her mouth. As all faces turned in expectation to her she gave the sweet a judicious lick. A look of critical thought crossed her face. Finally she answered the question that was obvious, even if unspoken.

"Not as bad as you might think, considering the source. I mean, too heavy on everything, really. But she tried, she tried to be nice, and that's so sweet. I should go thank her."

"Like some company?" Kandice asked. "The Boys can air the place out while we're gone."

"No, no. Not needed. I'd just like to spend a little private time with Pretty Pansy. We have so many things to discuss, and to do." At the last a little giggle came out, and a fast, slightly lascivious grin.

At the last a startled look shot across Hermione's face, and both hands were slapped across her mouth. She turned and quickly marched to the compartment door.

With a curious note in his voice Harry questioned: "Where do you think you're going?"

Defiantly, she replied as she opened the door and stepped out. "It's my body, and I'll do what I like with it!"

Ron was utterly confused by the sudden change in their rational friend, but something about her last statement seemed to crystallize something in the back of his mind, and he bolted up and surged at her. "That isn't Hermione!" he shouted as he knocked into her.

As they fell to the floor in a tangle of bodies, she managed to pull her wand out and shot a string of spells out, scorching the corridor outside the compartments with a series of Incendio fire spells. She was screaming, "Let me go, let me go, she needs me!" but Ron hung on and managed to force her hands to her sides, and then drop her wand.

Harry had stayed back, wary of the bolts of fire that had been flying about as Hermione's wand arm had been jerked back and forth. Ron had been so close to her that he'd been safe, and now he had taken that danger, at least, out of the picture. "Kandice, run, get a Prefect. No, just get Percy Weasley, none of the others."

As she took off, past the pair on the floor in the corridor and the several doors that had opened and which had passengers looking out to see what the commotion was about, Harry turned to Neville, who had moved up and helped Ron drag the struggling girl back into their compartment. After they were inside he went, scooped up Hermione's wand, and went back in, shutting the door behind him.

Inside Hermione was trying to wrench herself free, putting up a fierce enough effort that the two larger boys were having to put their full strength in holding her. Out from Hermione's lips a mélange of broken sentences and pleas was coming forth: "I need her… let me go… save me darling…"

"What the hell's happening here?" Harry demanded.

"Not sure; Ron had some idea, ask him," Neville replied.

Ron, who had actually had the breath knocked out of him in his initial tackle of Hermione and been hanging on by sheer determination, was having trouble catching his breath, but did his best.

"Not Hermione… something wrong… lost her mind… "

At that moment Hermione was finally becoming exhausted in her struggles, and was physically subsiding. Still she was begging and moaning to be released and allowed to go: "Love her… want to have her babies… please, please…" she continued on in a low-voiced but impassioned monologue.

It was then a huffing Kandice threw open the compartment door and darted in, followed by a confused looking Percy Weasley, Prefect badge shining and an almost savage look on his face at finding another occasion where his younger siblings were embarrassing him. "What's going on here!" he demanded.

Ron finally was able to get his thoughts in order, and his breath back: "Parkinson came in, tried to give Harry some candy. He didn't take any, but Hermione tried a piece. She went all funny; potioned I'm sure. Help her Perce, please!"

It took a few moments for this to soak in, for Percy and also the rest of them. Even Hermione, or whatever portion of her brain not saturated with the potion laced candy she had swallowed during the struggle in the train corridor, managed to get some sense out of Ron's declaration.

Harry pulled Parkinson's gift out of his pocket: "Nobody but me, Hermione, and Parkinson touched these, as far as I know. If you've got a clean handkerchief wrap this up, and keep it on you until you give this to a proper investigator. It's Procedure."

Percy wasn't sure what procedure Potter was talking about, but the boy was trying to be cooperative in some manner, and that counted a good deal. And Ron's analysis of Granger's condition wasn't unreasonable considering the stuff coming out of her mouth. He'd thought for a moment that this might all be just a prank, but he knew Granger. If she was in any sort of a normal condition she wouldn't be acting this way or saying these things. Or most probably thinking like that, either. So… this was a serious assault… best to slow her metabolism down, and preserve whatever was in her bloodstream for proper analysis.

"Hibernatius Viviendio!"

As the girl in their arms suddenly became quiet, then asleep, the boys holding her let go.

"Don't worry if she starts to breath slow, or starts to feel cold. All part of the spell; it's one I learned for first aid, slows down the bodily functions," Percy explained.

"Impressive, Perce, glad we got you here. I can see what Harry was getting out, this wasn't a little prank. Real mind control, this. And you're preserving the internal evidence. Thinking again, aren't you?" Ron's tone was admiring, and Percy gave a self-satisfied smirk. It was for acknowledgement like this that he lived, and so rarely got from his own family.

Still… there was more work to be done before the train reached Hogsmeade. Lucky that Val Torten had just showed up. As Head Girl she'd be just the sort of witness and back up he'd need as he went to do a bit of talking to with Miss Parkinson about what her version of today's strange business was.

Ω

"Are you out of your bloody mind, Weasley?" asked Valerie Torten, Head Girl this year at Hogwarts, and the pride of Ravenclaw. She'd been wondering for the last year what Penelope Clearwater saw in the Gryff, and unless it was an admiration for paranoia there still didn't seem much reason for the otherwise rational girl to want to go out with the boy. Surely there wouldn't be any harm in waiting until the train was in the station to report this prank. Yes, perhaps it had gotten out of control, but still, how bad could something some Second Year do really be? Still, Valerie realized, she would have to accompany the fanatic, at least to prevent him from doing something really stupid.

"A Slytherin girl drugs a Gryffindor girl, who goes crazy? You know how bad things have been between the Houses for years. If we can nail this down as a trivial thing quickly it won't get blown up out of all proportion."

Torten admitted there was some justice to that way of seeing things, as they knocked on the compartment door. They'd been directed to it by Farley, one of the Slytherin Prefects who had decided to come along, seeing as how a Gryffindor one was looking into something outside of his own house. On consideration, perhaps Weasley wasn't as wrong as she had first imagined, Torten thought, if this kind of suspicion was normal.

Inside were some recognizable faces; Flint (for some reason hanging out with his inferiors), Malfoy (who's hair was unmistakable), his Bookends (which was which Torten could never keep straight), the ugly girl, and the one who started when Weasley said, "Miss Parkinson, could you step outside; we'd like to talk with you for a moment."

The girl answered back in a sullen growl, "And why would I want to talk to you?"

"Because we're Prefects, you twit, and you'll be losing our House points if you continue to act like a little arse!" Farley had instantly come back with. Torten had to admit, it was a valid point. Especially as this crew had already helped get the 'Puffs the House Cup last year with their idiotic behavior.

Reluctantly the girl rose and went into the corridor, the eyes of all those in the compartment looking at her quizzically. Weasley closed the door to give them some privacy, and the three students in authority, and the Second Year, moved down a ways, and then to the platform between the cars. The clacking of the wheels over the rails would prevent any eavesdroppers from listening in.

Weasley took charge of the questioning, and with a calm tone he asked, "What, exactly, was in the candy you gave Miss Granger?"

Parkinson looked blank for a second, and then replied, "Granger? But Potter was supposed to eat them. I gave them to Potter. Ah, they were just sweets, nothing special."

With that Weasley pulled a cloth wrapped bundle out of his pocket, and opened it. An assortment of yellowish hard candies was revealed. Parkinson made a lunge, trying to knock them out of his hand and off the train into the countryside. Half expecting that, Weasley had them clenched tightly in his fist before she could make contact.

"They're only… they're only…!" Parkinson shouted in a panic, and then stopped. To their startlement the Head Girl and the Prefects saw Parkinson suddenly stick her tongue out and bite it with all her might. Blood began to fill her mouth as she ground down, evidently trying to sever the organ.

Farley yelled out, "Stupefy!" A moment later Weasley contributed a "Hibernatius Viviendio" when it became obvious that none of them had any other idea on how to stop the welling blood before the girl choked on it.

"Dead glad Penny used me as her practice dummy when she was working on getting that one down right," Percy said. "Also never imagined using it twice in one day. Who'd of thought it would come in so useful?"


	9. Chapter 9

I do not own, or receive any benefit, from the Harry Potter properties.

Palimpsest

"Oft Idiocy Does Evil Mar": Chapter 9

By Larry Huss

Percy left with the girl with the impressive badge on her robes. Then, as they watched Kandice leave the compartment to find her other dorm mates, the boys clustered around Hermione protectively. Not that Kandice was a stranger or distrusted, but she wasn't one of them, and Hermione was. Kandice had never devised schemes to save Harry from attacks by unidentified (but confirmed as real) enemies. Kandice had not been willing to risk her whole magical career, if necessary, to get Neville the tools he needed to finally come into his own as a wizard. And Kandice hadn't been there to let Ron know that he could hold his own with the brightest young witch they knew, or try to comfort him when his ultimate nightmare was revealed to be his secret self.

Now that it was only them, the conversation that had been delayed by the presence of the extraneous person in the compartment could finally began to take place.

"Where've you been Harry?" Neville asked. Hermione had let them know all about the Dursley Incident, but after that for the rest of the summer she had been quiet about his whereabouts, even when she had been with the boys at the amusement park. Harry would let them know, she'd told them, if he thought it was safe. Ron had nodded then; one of the Twins had mentioned once that the only way Potter hadn't been getting tons of mail, especially now that he was out in the open, must be because it was being monitored by the Ministry… and what the Ministry knew, anyone with a purse full of galleons could find out. If they had started to send lots of letters to a destination addressed "To Harry Potter" it was sure to get someone's attention, and that wouldn't have been wise. It was only going to be a few weeks longer before they were together again, anyway. Neville had also agreed to keep quiet for a while, when he had been told, but now there was a very different situation.

"Had to get away from my Aunt's place… well you know. Hermione found some place safe for me to go." With that Harry leaned over and gently ruffled her hair, now incredibly tangled by her struggles.

Ron was not impressed by the answer. "We already know that. Now we're asking where you've been. If you needed a place to stay, you could have come to my place. Nev would have loved to have you, too. And I don't see Hermione giving you the boot either."

"Yes," Neville said, "the old place is big enough you could have just slid in with nobody being put out a bit. And I could have used a bit of company too. Nobody under eighty coming to visit for a few months on end… not the right environment for a growing boy at all. In fact we could all have fit there, had loads of fun till the end of the Holidays."

Ron took over: "She wouldn't even tell us when we went to that fun Muggle place; just stuck her chin out, like she does, and we knew we wouldn't get anything out of her."

He went over to the bench-seat she was stretched out on, lifted her head and sat down so that it was pillowed in his lap. His fingers began to idly comb through her hair, taking out the tangles.

"What we don't know, can hurt us," Neville said firmly. "Don't think it can't!"

"It was for me…"Harry spluttered, "it was for me, the stuff. Just luck I don't like citrus flavor… "

"Sure, we understand that," said Neville, "and who'd have expected Pansy Parkinson, of all people, to try to drug you? I'd say it was some sort of love potion gone bad. Which isn't that impossible… Parkinson, after all. If it had been somebody talented Hermione wouldn't have reacted so oddly, and Ron wouldn't have noticed."

"Maybe it's best if you all stay away," Harry said. "I can handle Cousin Dudders having a rough time. But you guys... "

"You don't have that much choice," Ron said. "You know too much about me… I can't let the Forces of Evil get their hands on you and find out my secrets."

Harry shrugged, "You don't really talk in your sleep. Nev and I just made that up. And I don't think those other things we squeezed out of you are very good blackmail material, anyway."

Neville broke in: "Principle's the same, though. We're not safe if we don't know what to look out for, because we will be wherever you are anyways. Make no mistakes about that."

Harry felt scared, embarrassed… and mostly relieved. He finally realized that there was no point in trying to separate himself for them, or trying to drive them away.

"Alright, I'll try to tell you what I can. Hermione managed to figure out how to get a place to hide out at for a while, for the tail-end of the summer. There was real good warding there, and it was off of where I would be expected to go. Which meant it wasn't near any Weasleys, or Longbottoms, or Grangers. It was even alright to do magic; she thought of everything."

"Yeah," Ron agreed, "she wrote us about the Parental Supervision Dodge. Even Percy got to work on the parents when he found out, until they gave in. Finally they wrote to the Ministry that they were tutoring us over the summer, and not to register any underage magic from us. They kept our wands locked up until they heard back, though.

"But… her parents are Muggles. How'd she…"

"She didn't," Harry said. "She just said that she'd find a way to catch up later."

Neville felt a bit embarrassed at how much her letter to him had changed things for the better. Grandmother had actually not known about the exception, and had leaped at the chance to watch her grandson actually using his wand. She had waited so long to see him continue the long unbroken line of Longbottom Wizards. Those had been the best times he'd had at the Manor this summer, out doing his First Year spells till he had them down pat, and starting on the Second Year ones, with Grandmother sipping sherry while seated in a pergola overlooking the back lawn and smiling.

There was a rap on the compartment door. Harry, knowing that there was a good chance it was Percy coming back with help for Hermione's problem called out, "Come in!"

Instead it was Draco Malfoy, with an irritated look on his face.

"Hello Potter, Longbottom, Weasley… Granger." It took him that long to notice the unusual seating arrangements, and positions in the compartment. "What's the matter with Granger? Does she get train-sick, or is it something Muggle she's taking back up to school?"

Getting no response, except for three increasingly angry faces glaring at him, Malfoy shrugged, and got to the reason for his visit: "Anyway, what's going on around here? A mess of Prefects came and took Pansy away, and then they went back past our room… oh, Bloody Hell… both of them have it, don't they? So it's some sort of magical disease, not Muggle at all. Sorry about Granger then, not her fault, and all. Aren't you being a bit rash, Weasley, getting so close?"

A year ago Ron would have blasted from his seat and did his best to plant a fist onto Malfoy's nose. But a year of passing each other in the school hallways and nothing going between them but a considerable number of snarky comments (honors divided, in Ron's opinion, rather evenly), had lessened his tendency to go off half-cocked. There was also the way the Twin's time-delayed pranks going off in all the Slytherin rooms, but the girls' lav and bedrooms had made that House a lot less ominous and a lot more comic. And in the end… he had Hermione's head in his lap, and he wouldn't risk her getting hurt in any rumpus that might happen if violence broke out.

Malfoy watched as Potter sat silent for a moment, the wheels going around in his head as he thought up an answer. Malfoy knew that what would come out would be true. Just incomplete and oblique enough that it would be risky trusting it too far. He hoped that Potter would have his answer soon; it looked like Longbottom was getting ready to boil over, but not Weasley by some miracle. The relations of the four of them had been puzzling him for some time. It was certainly closer than the normal girl-boy type of hanging out he was used to. But it also certainly wasn't the full-body contact type of bonding that he'd been dodging for most of last year from someone currently insensible and under guard. Well, Weasley certainly looked domestic enough. Why was Longbottom almost at the point of starting a hex-fest?

"Parkinson came in here earlier," Potter said, "left some sweets. Hermione didn't know they were drugged. A botched love-potion we think. She's been put unconscious so she doesn't get hurt or anything. We've let Prefect Weasley know, evidently he's been… active in following up on things."

Ron felt a surge of familial pride. Perce was a stick-up-his-bum pain, but he would try to do what he thought was right.

Malfoy let his puzzlement leak into his voice. "Pansy was trying to get with Granger? I guess I was just her decoy all the time! Well, that takes my ego down a notch." He laughed a bit there. All that visiting (uninvited by him, at least) by Pansy over the summer been a ruse. Then he frowned, why would she blow her cover so obviously on the trip up to School, if that had been the case?

Harry enjoyed the sight for a few seconds, and then he continued. "She gave them to me, Draco. Said they were a peace offering. Which is interesting, as I hadn't had a quarrel with her over the last year for there being any reason to have to make peace anyway."

Malfoy let his mouth run without guidance from his mind as he tried to think of what was really going on here. Potter tended to use a given name when he was either very frivolous, or very serious. This discussion certainly wasn't frivolous. How did it all add up? Meanwhile he could distantly hear himself saying: "So, she was just another of your fans, Potter? It's a bit better for my pride, that. I don't even blame you; I know you aren't responsible for the muck that gets printed about you. Actually… if you're a bit hard up, maybe I could hire you to keep her distracted. Sometimes she came close to driving me to hiding last year, she was so clingy."

"Not for any money, Malfoy. But if I hear anything that's suitable for publication, I'll let you know."

Malfoy thought on things for a moment more. He'd bearded the Lions in their den, and was going to walk away unscathed, and maybe get some interesting news in the future. Not bad, not bad. His leaving Vince and Greg back in their compartment had worked well; somehow they always seemed to bring the worst out in people when they demanded that Draco get special respect. He'd have to teach them, somehow, to be less provocative. He nodded politely to the Gryffs, and backed out of the compartment; no sense tempting Longbottom, who was still showing a serious scowl. Perhaps God-father Snape would have something about this, in a day or two. Until then he would practice patience and keep his own counsel.

Ω

It was perhaps a little unnerving to the eager young neophyte First Years that as they disembarked from the Hogwarts Express at the Hogsmeade Station they could see two limp bodies being levitated past them and put into the first carriage that pulled up. It was drawn by an invisible team of who-knew-whats, and went up the road to the school at a gallop. Certainly that night there was greater than normal panic when the Giant Squid put in its regular scheduled appearance as the boats crossed the Black Lake. Enough frantic reaction ensued that two of the boats overturned, requiring the Squid's immediate efforts at rescuing the children from the frosty water. Sometimes it wondered why some spell wasn't put on the tipsy shells… but magic wasn't its business, after all, and so it just continued with its lifesaving duties.

As the trembling (and in some cases soaked) children stood in line, waiting for the Ritual of Sorting (was it walking across a searing fire-pit, or facing down a Hag?) the rumor spread that there was a plague lose in the school, with the first two victims having been on the train. They were now in the Morgue, being prepared for either rapid burial, or hygienic cremation. The worried looks among some of the older students didn't help things. Both the Gryffindor and Slytherin tables had a lot of anxious faces; confirmation for the more worried Firsties that something was amiss.

The Sorting progressed with perhaps a bit more stalling and confusion than usual (a Hat, all that worry for a Hat!), and then each properly little placed Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin, and Gryffindor were given the announcements for the year's start, and introduced from afar to the celebrity who was going to be their Defense Against the Dark Arts professor for the coming year: Gilderoy Lockhart.

As the official pronouncements ended, and the Feast appeared, one new Gryffindor noticed that after a minute or two to compose hurried sandwiches, a group of his Housemates slid off their bench seats and left the Great Hall, ignoring the startled look of the Headmaster, and the frowning one from their Head of House. Perhaps the new student would have just chalked it up as one of the many mysteries that Hogwarts was said to contain, and gone back to his chicken, or the beef, or the pork chop, or the… But one of those leaving had been identified as Harry Potter, and as sure as he had a brand-new wizarding camera in his robe pocket, Colin Creevey wasn't going to let this opportunity to meet that hero escape him.

Ω

"A little too perfect, don't you think?" said George to the other five in the group moving through the deserted corridors toward the Infirmary.

Lavender protested: "Can't be too perfect, especially when you're trying for a good first impression. I wonder what cologne he uses. I think he overdoes the teeth though."

"You two will never agree, you know," Harry said. "George is looking at him as a facade that deserves to be cracked. Lav is looking at Lockhart as a work of art to be judged on different criteria." He was very satisfied with that observation. It was the first time he'd ever managed to work "criteria" into a sentence naturally.

"But the real question is, how will he be when he has a chance to be evaluated as a piece of… got it… Performance Art? A DADA Professor in action! Power, knowledge, nerve, and creative response! Does he have it, or is he a Quirrell in disguise?"

With that consideration still unsettled, the group arrived at the entrance to the Infirmary, and quieted down. Lavender went in a little ahead of the others; she was running a scouting run to see if Pomfrey was there or not, and what mood she was in if present.

After a minute Matron's voice called them in. "Don't tire her out, and you will leave, quietly, when I tell you to." They needed no more invitation, and quickly entered. The large ward had a section toward the back curtained off by screens, but Hermione was located near a large bay window looking out toward a courtyard garden. It was, unfortunately, nighttime, and the calming effects of the flowers and shrubbery was somewhat lost. In fact, the faint light and uncertain air currents gave the scene a rather unsettling and eerie aspect. But that was Hogwarts all over, wasn't it?

She was sitting upright in the bed, a slightly vague look on her face, her eyes perhaps a tad unfocused. On a wheeled table/cart next to the bed were a water pitcher, glass, and a small collection of potions bottles. Calming Draughts and anti-Aphrodisiacs. A weak smile crossed her face, a little too slowly to really be Hermione at her normal state.

"Hi guys," she said as she slowly waved her hand in front of her face in greeting. The boys moved toward her, while Lavender went to confer with Matron.

"You missed the Feast," Ron said gruffly, thrusting a small roast beef on buttered roll sandwich toward her.

"Thanks," Hermione said as she took it, and put it down onto the table; potions and a good appetite were not natural companions. She managed to flash her smile again, though.

"It's so very odd to be insane, you know," she said. "In one part of my mind I know exactly what happened, and in another I want to run to Parkinson… she's over there behind the screens… and throw myself at her feet and beg her to make me hers. Yet I know she's a bitch. How… odd."

"You'll get over this soon, Hermione. And then we'll get back at Parkinson, fully." When Harry said that his voice was calm, almost flat. Yet everyone, even Hermione in her drugged state, felt a shiver run through them. The Twins looked at each other; this didn't sound like an invitation for running a few embarrassing pranks on someone. They looked at their brother and Longbottom; both were smiling the least bit, and nodding their heads; the Twins began to get worried.

Lavender came over with a slight frown on her face.

"I have some good news-"

"Just say it!" Harry spat out.

"Using general purges and potions Hermione should be normal within a few days. We can't use specific counter potions because the Headmaster had the contents of her stomach and the uneaten samples destroyed without analysis; no reports on this were sent to the Aurors, or any parents. And we'll be told not to talk about it about what happened to anyone.

"Now, I know you'll want to 'talk' to Parkinson a bit. But she evidently tried to bite her own tongue out, and came close enough that she'll be seeing a specialist in St. Mungo's some time tomorrow for detail healing work. She's tied up right now to stop… anything she might try to do to herself.

"Altogether this had been a memorable start to our Second Year, and if you really want to do something to her, for Merlin's sake don't go around look like a squad of hit-wizards. Which, I may say, you do currently."

A very cold smile flickered over Harry's face, and then he thanked her. "Yes, glad you reminded me. Guys, stay here a while longer, I have someone to get in contact with. See you back in the Common Room."

Then he left the room, allowing the others to bring the visit to a normal tone of mild encouragement and promises to bring Hermione any important work she might miss. It was even more awkward than this sort of visit usually was. Hermione's blank face and distant smile, and her occasional glances over to where Parkinson was hidden, drove the students out, and back to see if they could catch the tail end of the Feast. In the event, no, but following the Twins' lead a successful expedition to the kitchens managed to garner some barely touched cakes, and a tub of strawberry ice cream.

Ω

After they all left… Lavender trying to chat up Fred, and Neville giving a determined effort to chat up her… Hermione quietly made sure Pomfrey was back in her cubicle, getting her records ready for the coming year. A House-Elf had come down as soon as the Sorting had finished, dropping off a list of which students were in which House. Now she was completing her records updates, and completely absorbed in the tedium. Except for the sound of the wind outside, and Pomfrey's quill scratching away there was silence in the Infirmary. Hermione slid off of her bed, thought for a moment, and quietly took up and drank a calming potion. Then she went quietly toward the screened-off section of the ward.

She looked, as she passed, at a tray on a side table. It had a pair of sharp-pointed scissors and a roll of surgical tape on it. For just a second a crimson thought, compounded of love and rage, passed through her mind, before the dull weight of her latest potion reasserted herself. She knew she would have regretted it later, but still… still… to have lived for one perfect moment of action and justice would have been a source of comfort to her. Until they took her to Azkaban, no doubt, where she had heard every joy was sucked out of you. Yes, the calming potion had been a very wise idea.

She moved one of the screens enough to enter the enclosure, and looked down onto the bound form of Pansy Parkinson, a gag in her mouth. Her hands and legs were each tied to a nearby part of the bed. Sometimes physical solutions were needed, even for Magicals who were injured. Too many spells and potions all acting at once were a bad idea when certain delicate medical injuries were being dealt with. And currently Pansy was doped to the gills with pain killers, blood restorers, and anti-inflammatory potions. Hermione had heard the Headmaster, among other things, ask Matron why the girl couldn't just be given a Draught of Living Death, and having his ignorance of medical knowledge roundly, and loudly, commented on.

"Hello Pansy," Hermione said to the wide-eyed girl stretched out and tied below her. "I'm glad you aren't dead, yet. Hurting yourself, that must have been someone's security measure, some compulsion or other. I bet you can't write things out, either."

Parkinson nodded her head, her frantic look of panic subsided a little; someone understood her.

"But Pansy, they'll find out that you haven't done the job, and that you're still alive. Oh Pansy, whatever will be done to you?"

The look of panic returned to Parkinson's eyes, redoubled.

"You were supposed to get your hooks into Harry, weren't you?"

The girl nodded again, frantically.

"And then, what were you supposed to do with him?" Hermione asked. Under her calm, drugged eyes, the other girl seemed to quiet down, her head bobbing a little as some little script was gone through, and then Parkinson began to twitch and pull at her bonds, making guttural noises behind the gag all the while.

Hermione's calm, distant voice asked another question: "It was going to be very bad for you too, when you had Harry in a bad situation, wasn't it?"

Parkinson was beginning to yank hysterically at her bindings, and doing her best to scream through her gag and swollen, lacerated tongue. Hermione looked down and gave a small, sad, Madonna smile. The part of her still potioned to adore Pansy was very unhappy: first that the girl was in such terror, and secondly that Parkinson had been willing to betray her for another all along. The rest of her mind, still dulled, was lacking in any sympathy at all for her classmate, but was calculating as best she could of what the most useful course was. Finally deciding, as Pansy gave up her struggles in exhaustion, Hermione turned to go, then turned back for one last question.

"If your hands were free, would you hurt yourself? Would you tear yourself till you bleed?"

Parkinson nodded with a small jerk of her head, tried to say something, then went silent as tears coursed down her cheeks. Hermione smiled again, and there was no hint of a Madonna nature in it this time. Then she carefully removed the expression from her face. She walked slowly and unsteadily to Matron Pomfrey's cubicle, and entered it.

"Child! What are you doing out of bed? You shouldn't be allowed to walk in your condition!" Pomfrey exclaimed in mixed concern and outraged authority.

"Oh, but Matron, I was so concerned about Pansy dear. None of her Housemates have come to see her, and I was sure that she must have been so lonely."

The child's voice was very soft and flat, not at all her normal way of talking that managed, while still being in the register of a normal 12 year old girl, to have a sort of a hint of commanding brazen trumpets and insistently beating drums. Not the least of Pomfrey's worry was that it seemed that the love potion was still affecting the girl so much. With the amount of stuff that had been poured into her stomach…

"And when I went to talk to her, don't worry, I didn't try to make her talk back, she was so agitated, really frantic. I thought you should know."

With a guilty look Pomfrey checked the clock, she had gotten distracted, and Parkinson was past due for another round of potions, non-oral dosing. That Granger! Even when not in her right mind she was so considerate and thoughtful!

As the Medi-Witch unlocked the cabinet and began to gather up the needed medicines and equipment, Hermione continued her low keyed monologue.

"I thought that she might not be as nervous if a fellow student, yes, I know she really wasn't trying to get my love… talked to her. I mean, authority figures can get us kids so nervous and close mouthed!

"Anyway, I think that if people aren't very careful, she'll probably try for suicide if questioned too directly… just saying. From some of her… body language, it seemed to me that she might have been primed to eliminate… any clues about the background to all of this. Including herself."

As the woman rushed to her other charge, Hermione wobbled her way back to her bed and collapsed into it. She managed to reach over to the table next to it and grab the sandwich Ron had brought her. She only could take the smallest nibble at it, but it would have been so ungrateful to not even try it, after Ron had been so thoughtful. It fell from her hand as the potions and her exertions finally caught up to her, and she fell asleep.

When Matron Pomfrey reached Parkinson's bed she did a quick visual inspection before starting to administer any more potions. The girl was flushed, weeping, and the bonds she was in were slightly tightened on her wrists by struggle. Neither her hospital gown, nor her bed sheets, were disturbed, and Pomfrey felt very ashamed of herself for even contemplating that Granger might have taken advantage of the situation, even in her current state.

Ω

As Hermione Granger slept, Colin Creevey dangled from an otherwise empty sconce, his shoes two feet off the stone steps going down from the Owlery at Hogwarts School. Three steps higher than this, Harry Potter was emptying the film out of the Wizarding Camera (with optional Flash Attachment) that Colin had used to take a candid photograph of the Boy-Who-Lived. Who evidently didn't consider himself all that photogenic.

"Perhaps I should have asked, first?" Colin ventured.

"Oh, yes. Much more polite. I'd have said no, of course, but who knows how much happier you'd have been." Harry said it all calmly and politely as he incinerated the roll of film that had thirty three photos commemorating Colin's first day at Hogwarts. "I hope you understand my stand on being photographed? When I first entered the Wizarding World, which was only last year by the way, I discovered I was public property. Everyone had an opinion about me, and what I should act like. And a lot of them had made tons of galleons off me, with not a sickle that ever came my way. I'm a bit touchy, I expect. No hard feelings though; I don't carry grudges well.

"Take pictures of Hogwarts. Take pictures of Dumbledore. I'm sure you'll be allowed to take pictures of Lockhart. But Potter is a no-go zone. Are we clear on that?"

Creevey nodded; if he was very nice to the crazy man, he might not be hanging around there until the morning.

"Oh, and ask my friends before you do them also, will you?"

Creevey nodded again. It seemed so little to do, to receive the blessed gift of contact with the ground again. Potter smiled, charmingly, and with a quick motion of his wand deposited Colin back on Hogwarts firma.

"Used the Wingardium spell on you, it's First Year, and dead useful. Practice it, right?"

"Yes sir!"

Before dismissing him, the Boy-Who-Lived gave Colin a short rundown on the Professors he'd be meeting over the next few days. Colin later found that the advice, especially the "Don't mind Snape, he's a bastard to everyone. Just don't get rattled and don't get cheeky with him. Or show fear; never show fear with Snape." would be the most useful advice anyone gave him all that first month.

Oddly, this brief encounter in no way diminished Colin's opinion of Harry Potter. It was reasonable after all, that someone who was a celebrity would be a little tired of flash bulbs going off in their eyes as they went down steep and twisting stone steps. And the camera had been returned undamaged in the end; a decent thing to do, all things considered.

Ω

Her roommates visited Hermione the next morning, eager for the inside information of what had gone on. When Lav had informed them that Hermione was the target of involuntary erotic obsession, a host of indelicate questions came to mind, some of which were asked very indiscreetly during the hurried half hour the girls had between classes. Unpleasant glances at the screened-off area of the ward were an affirmation for Hermione that not all girls were dangerous, treacherous, sneaks. The boys came later in the day, and amused her with the epic of Hogwarts' own paparazzi. She regretted that she'd be missing her first possible class with Gilderoy, and took that feeling as a sign of her return to normality. She decided, and informed her friends, that it might not be a good idea to inform her parents about the little episode. They were already a bit sensitive to any indications that Hogwarts might have serious disciplinary problems among the students.

A day later, a special Healer came to Hogwarts to deal with Pansy, and soon ran into difficulties as the information he had been given hadn't included the fact the patient was disposed to self-damage. After a thrashing Pansy had been subdued by an alert Pomfrey, some of the needed delicate connections were made. And then unmade, as the girl tried to dash herself into a wall head first before all the needed healing was done. Deciding that a specialist in an entirely different specialty than his own was needed before it was any use working on the student, the Healer departed, promising that a proper place in the Spell Damage ward at St. Mungo's Hospital would be reserved.

After he left, and a freshly tied, gagged, and sedated Pansy was once again safely hidden behind the screens, Matron Pomfrey came to check on Hermione, and calm herself down doing routine procedures on a normal patient. After all, in a school that taught Potions as a major subject, and had hundreds of adolescent young men and women, a certain amount of chemical wooing took place every year and there was usually no mystery on how to treat the situation.

"I don't think she'll be going to Hospital soon," Hermione idly commented to Pomfrey as she had her vital signs read.

"And why not, Miss Granger?" Pomfrey asked. She had her own opinions on the matter, and was dreading that her worries would be confirmed, even by a student.

"They keep records that can't be jiggered by the Headmaster at the Hospital, don't they?"

Pomfrey didn't reply; the thought had been too close to her own suspicions for comfort.

"Matron, surely my reaction to the Love Potion can't have been normal. Was it me, or something wrong with the Potion?"

On a merely technical matter Pomfrey was far more in her depth, and she was so grateful not to have unusual treatments being tried out on another of her students that she temporarily forgot the Headmaster's polite commands to stifle all inquires about the whole affair. And even if she didn't quite come down with a burst of amnesia, surely the girl deserved to know what had been done to her own body?

"Overdose and a massive one, too. Probably the Potion was damaged when it was changed from a fluid to a solid. After all, you barely had one candy and you were overwhelmed, so it must have been concentrated excessively. A typical mistake of amateurs who want to get things done in a hurry. You may have heard the Headmaster trying to give me advice? Well, you can't treat the human body like a block of wood, to be manipulated at whim! If he had ever done anything more medical than apply a sticking plaster to his knee he'd have realized that. Draught of Living Death indeed!"

Hermione stayed quiet, cooperative, and didn't even complain about the bland foods she was served. 'D' concealed things, and not just from his students. Evidently Aurors and medical staff of Britain's premier (and perhaps only) magical medical establishment were included in his list of the untrustworthy. Perhaps that was why he had a beard? He couldn't dare to shave; wizarding mirrors could be so inquisitive!

Well, disappointing as things were, they certainly didn't surprise Hermione, and when she was discharged from the Infirmary, and informed the boys of what she had learned it wasn't any great shock in parts of that quarter either. The Twins, on the other hand, were somewhat staggered; somehow in the core of their mischievous selves they had retained their mother's unbounded trust and reverence for the Headmaster. Allowing one student to be denied justice, and another proper medical care…

Yet Dumbledore had proven cunning in his attempt to suppress the story of The Drugging on the Hogwarts Express, she thought. By hiring Gilderoy Lockhart as a Professor, the greatest amount of scrutiny from the students was directed to the golden-haired, color-coordinated (mainly pastel) clothed, and commanding-voiced teacher. It was true that much of the male students' attention was of a negative and nattering nature, while most of the female students exhibited behavior of a more positive and even affectionate sort. While all eyes and half the hearts of Hogwarts were on Lockhart, the removal from school of one Slytherin girl during the second week of classes hardly made a stir.

Every year, particularly in the first three or so, there were a number of students who were unable to make the grade, and were sent shamefacedly home. Sometimes (rarely) they would after a year or so make a return appearance. More often they went into some menial occupation if Muggleborn or Half-Blood, or whatever apprenticeship or family business was available if their family was Pure Blood. Only those with a proper degree from Hogwarts (or a great deal of family influence… or both) had a chance at a proper Ministry job. It was assumed by most of those who bothered to notice that Pansy Parkinson had had a breakdown while on the way up to school, and was "resting" in one of those genteel establishments located in the more secluded parts of the isle, that had bars on the windows and many attendants in white uniforms. Only Draco Malfoy, for reasons even he could not fully explain, seemed unhappy among the Slytherin Second Years with the conventional wisdom's explanations.

Ω

"Weasley."

"Malfoy."

"I'd expected Potter; is he too…" Malfoy bit his tongue before something counter-productive came off of it, "… otherwise occupied?"

"I think it's some sort of rite of manhood thing. They all wanted to see if I could have a civilized meeting with you, and not end up in Filch's care and confinement."

"I'm probably being tested too, then. Interesting… someone should have ended up in my House. Still, business before mayhem I suppose."

Weasley leaned against one of the huge stone blocks that made up the exterior of the West Tower. Without anyone leaning in to provide menace, Malfoy was being less provocative and easier to handle.

"Parkinson over-concentrated a love potion, type unknown. She did that to make it a solid; easier to get someone to take, piece of candy rather than a gill or so of a random fluid. It worked too hard and too fast when Hermione took a piece as a peace offering of sorts." Here Ron had to bite his tongue a bit, rather than to launch into a lengthy description of the nature of the House that would have had Parkinson as a member.

"Anyway, Malfoy, we noticed, got help, the Prefects and Head Girl tracked down Pansy, asked what she thought she was doing. Girl tried to bite her tongue out… nasty scene, that. Seems she's got some compulsions laid on her, to keep her quiet. That's why she had to leave Hogwarts, until they're all unwrapped from her mind, might do herself an injury otherwise.

"We think from this that she was used as an agent… a disposable agent. Went after Harry, got the wrong target, but triggered to eliminate herself if caught in any case.

"On the train, you said she'd spent a lot of time during the summer over at your place. Did she talk then; say she was doing something big?"

Malfoy thought for a moment. "She did, toward the end of summer, seem… smug. As if she knew something I didn't. Honestly, the old place has so many grottos, gazebos, rustic ruins and secluded glens that I spent as much time as I could staying out of her way, so she couldn't waylay me into some awkward situation. She even made some stupid noises as if… well, she seriously overestimated her attraction to me. If it had been Greengrass…"

"Yes, I can see the difference there; much more… interesting girl. But you'd have to exclude the fact that she tried to drop a pot on your head from a balcony yesterday."

Malfoy nodded at that; most of the Second Years had let the feud from last year cool down to mere verbal sparring. Daphne Greengrass had evidently felt it a point of honor to emphasize her scorn for such lily-livered peacemaking. Yet her family had come through the last war firmly neutral. Perhaps due to no one wanting to get a Greengrass woman mad at them by over-vigorous wooing?

"Harry wanted you to have this; said its family business and all, so you shouldn't be surprised he sent it to you." With that Weasley gave Malfoy an unsealed envelope. "Be seeing you," he said then, and walked away, certain that he had handled himself well. They had confirmation that Parkinson had been out at the Malfoy's, and had been in on something. Draco wasn't a particular suspect for anything, but his parents were looking as if they should be put on the short (metaphorical) list.

Malfoy opened the envelope after Weasley had turned a corner. Inside was a copy of a newspaper column, dated August 4th of that year. One of the rarely read back pages usually filled with matters of minor interest, as was obvious from the from the type size. It wasn't long, and didn't need to be.

_On due consideration, and in acknowledgement of certain trial irregularities, Sirius Black was released yesterday from confinement with his sentence considered to be completed for time served. His civil rights have been restored, and accounts unfrozen._


	10. Chapter 10

I do not own, or receive any benefits from the Harry Potter properties.

Palimpsest

Lurking in the Shadows: Chapter 10

By Larry Huss

Lucius Malfoy was deeply disappointed in the search the Aurors made on his estate that summer. He had been properly snobbish and nasty as they showed up for their "surprise" inspection of Malfoy Manor for Dark and Forbidden Artifacts; he had certainly fulfilled his role in the charade. But somehow, the Aurors' hearts just weren't in it, and the hit and miss way they went about the job was saddening to him. They even missed the carefully "hidden" cache of slightly risqué (in a magical sense) materials that were up in the room Father had died in earlier that year. Abraxas Malfoy had been a notorious Muggle -baiter and rakehell in his time, and not finding something under his mattress or hidden in a hatbox in a closet would have been perfect evidence that the secrecy of the search warrant issuing had been compromised. After all the work he had done to prepare the perfect indiscretion, and hide off of the estate his really incriminating materials, Lucius felt that he had been somehow cheated of a proper courtesy.

Of course, that sort of thing was only to be expected in a Fudge administration. Having maneuvered Fudge into the post of Minister for Magic had ensured that there would be no effective resistance to the eventual proper restoration of rule by the right Families, when the right time came. Still, the damage that his lackadaisical time in office was doing to proper administration and discipline would probably take twice as long (however long he was in office, that is) to repair when things were put in their proper order. It was a sad statement that the best people in the magical world would have to ruin their own government in order to get in a position to change and repair it.

After the event, Malfoy waited until Draco was back up at school to begin rounding up the truly useful Artifacts and Grimoires, and putting them into new hiding places that were both secure and easily accessible. Finally, after realizing that little Miss Parkinson was both too well watched-over (for reasons that did not implicate him in anything) and (from the medical reports) so scrambled in her wits as to no longer be any sort of a danger, even if she wanted to be one, Malfoy went down the Ministry to retrieve the most dangerous and incriminating of the items that he had taken out the hidey holes and delvings of the Estate prior to the visit by the policing authority.

Lucius was practically chortling over his cleverness as he walked into the Department of Dead Letters (No Ghosts!) to retrieve the most cleverly hidden item of all. When he had dropped it off here, at the earlier part of the season, he had carefully made sure that the normally comatose employees were out on their usual prolonged luncheon break. Now, he repeated the process, a not-difficult one as down in the bowels of the DoDL(NG!) on a damp and chilly autumn day they took their extended luncheons seriously, and stretched them from 11:30 AM through to at least 2 PM if they could. And as their domain was one which was by definition the last destination of the undeliverable mail it was hardly surprising that few came to seek, and even fewer to complain about letters or packages that hadn't been delivered years, if not decades earlier.

He had cunningly disguised the one most likely to bring him real trouble by a classic ruse. Wrapped in plain brown paper, and tied with a piece of common twine the pristine Journal of T.M. Riddle, addressed to a family that had become extinct sixty years before, had been slipped into a pile of similar bundles that included pieces that were approaching the century mark in being a bit late. How many families had been rift apart over angry letters of thanks (that had never been sent) for presents (that had never been delivered) Malfoy had no idea, but as a hiding place it would make the Journal a perfect "tree in the forest." And like one tree in a glade, impossible to pick out by random chance, certainly so!

Malfoy didn't fear for it being damaged by the mildew and mould; empty as it was the diary still had been drenched in protective spells and soaked in potions that guaranteed its physical preservation. It might only be, in the Dark Lord's words, "a little sentimental journal of my youth," but to one still loyal to the cause, having access to that blank book (the Dark Lord being proverbially as sentimental as a rock); it could be used as a political talisman at the right time and among the right people.

It should not be difficult to imagine his emotions when, as he wandered to the newly cobweb and dust free aisle toward the back of the cavernous storage area, he saw that in the place of the deep and long and overflowing wooden bins there were new and shining steel rows of shelves, with the merest few of them covered only one parcel high, and clear and distinct new labels indicating the dates for the materials thereon. Lucius Malfoy came very close to fainting.

When he was certain that his legs would support him again, Mr. Malfoy was off at the run to the front desk of the DoDL(NG!), which was still unstaffed. He contemplated causing a rumpus, but discarded that idea as too likely to draw attention to himself. He wondered at his chances of success in hunting in the Ministry dining area for the staff, but realized he had little idea of what any of them looked like. There was nothing to do but wait, and put on a disguising Charm.

When, after two days subjective time, and one hour objective time, the three people who were the guardians of the empty and echoing place returned to their place of nominal employment they were surprised to discover a visitor. The Supervisor, Mr. Androsine Cogless, rose to the occasion of having someone not doing a drop off appear at their place of work. When he heard the reason for the visitor's visit; a matter of a Solicitor checking up on a possible lost-in-the-mails wedding present that was figuring in a inheritance suit ongoing from 1942, and the complications it had caused, Cogless regretfully was the one to disappoint their guest.

"All change and bother over nothing, but upstairs they're all 'out with the old, in with the new!' The Minister's Assistant only granted us the budget to get new shelving Transformed permanently if we guaranteed that everything would be labeled and in just that certain place. You can't do that with two hundred years of stuff, can you? So we activated Clause Three, Paragraph B of Section 31 of the Code of Postal Service and just cleared out everything over fifty years old. Everything perfectly according to Regulations, I assure you!"

"And how was the discarded material taken care of?" the Solicitor gamely continued, showing a great deal of perseverance in his pursuit of either the Law or his fee.

"In the dustbin out back, but that was picked up weeks ago. **Pennelli and Leibowitz** handle that. They're out East Anglia way I think. Have their Floo address somewhere," Cogless said as he began rummaging around in his coat and vest pockets for a business card. Having your pockets' capacity magically expanded so that they could hold hundreds of items was convenient for carrying things around, but it usually led to what has been called "Overstuffed Purse Syndrome" in the Muggle world.

As to why an outside firm was contracted to provide waste disposal, when any talented Witch or Wizard could use a Vanishment spell to take care of such situations was in fact completely innocent. Vanishment is not, in fact, the easiest of Magical Disciplines, and after some precious item gets accidently damaged, or disappears when any inept attempt at housecleaning goes terribly, terribly, wrong, the professionals are often called in to handle such situations in the future. As the DoDL(NG!) had few occasions to get rid of materials with strong magical elements in them it behooved them not to risk setting off any unexpected explosions, contaminations, or pollutions. Having Mr. Pennelli or Miss Leibowitz (actually Mrs. Pennelli, but the sign and cards for the firm had been first made up before the wedding, and they didn't want to confuse their customers about who they were dealing with) do the potentially unpleasant disposal at a far off location had probably proven a wise decision of Mr. Cogless.

But not one to make him popular with Mr. Malfoy, who (cleverly disguised as a relatively harmless member of the legal profession), once he had received the proper address was off in a tearing hurry to a location that would not ordinarily figure on his social calendar.

Ω

Tom Marvolo Riddle was a very confused, evil young Wizard. Or something. In truth, even he was currently uncertain about what he was. His most coherent memories were of being an exceptionally talented evil young student Wizard at Hogwarts in the year 1943, with subsequent occasional confused and dream-like fragments of memories of talking with various dull and uninteresting people while he sucked away at their life force. There had never been enough, and his essential need to end the possibility of ever being hungry again had always been unfulfilled. Until a functional alcoholic had managed to get ahold onto the book, and write in it enough to finally let him become strong enough to leave his protected, but claustrophobic, refuge. He had, of course killed the Witch involved: it was much how his first birth had been, he'd been told; killing his first mother. He felt a mixture of mild affection and deep contempt for this female who had given him life this time, also.

In any case, his domestic arrangements had never satisfied him in the least; from the days in the Orphanage to the few times he had stayed over Holidays with one of his condescending upper-class 'friends' from school. Now, looking down at the cooling corpse of the elderly, gangrel, grey-haired witch sprawled on the floor next to the table where she had literally written her life away, he contemplated his options. He was tempted to see if he could re-enter the book, a place of ultimate and secure safety. At least, since the latest newspaper in the pile in the corner of the rented room had a date of 1992, it seemed to have managed to protect him from death or even aging for nearly fifty years. From the look of it, the diary was itself still undamaged and perfect in its defenses. At least as far as he could tell with the spells he had been trying on it with the recalcitrant wand he had pulled from the hat-band of his dead host.

Tom was sure that this current situation wasn't exactly how a Horcrux were supposed to work. But here he was, so chalk this up to another case of the secret lore of the Hogwarts Library's Restricted Section Hidden Shelves (the ones that even the Librarians had never found despite centuries of dusting and rearranging) being less than perfect. Either that or an inexperienced student had skipped a necessary step in the ritual, and since the student was him, that was unthinkable.

But there were more important things to deal with this drizzly autumn day than reminisce about his inadequate education. He was real, there was a corpse on the floor, and he was effectively displaced a half century out of his own time. Looting the apartment and body was the work of half an hour. Everything that might have resale value was shrunken and put into a pocket, the diary itself placed in his school blazer's inside coat pocket, right over where his heart was, giving it better magical protection than a battleship's armor. The body could be left; finding a corpse (when the smell started to attract attention) that had no wounds wouldn't cause any particular notice. Just a drunk who had pawned everything to support her habit, and finally died of the results of her addiction. A reasonably explainable body being found was far less likely to arouse any sort of suspicion from the Aurors than a mysterious disappearance would.

He wondered a little bit how much further he would have moved in time from his… concealment… encapsulation… splitting… if the witch hadn't been in the alley behind the Ministry that day scavenging for anything useful, and found a still perfect little book to record her bitter complaints about how horrid everyone was to a sensitive flower like her, and how that numinous 'They' had ruined her life. Tom still remembered her first hesitant and shaky passages, and how she had rejoiced at an endlessly sympathetic correspondence companion. Probably the diary would have protected him for however long it would have been until somehow a… life-donor would have found him. Perhaps he should give the book to some follower when he assembled his conspiracy, with instructions to give it to some sacrifice if he should happen meet a physical misfortune. But, that was a possibility for another day, when he actually had some decent followers. He stepped boldly out into the dreary day, and half-flinched back from the uncomfortable brightness of the concealed sun.

Ω

Hermione was staring at the few still un-netted Cornish Pixies. She was on the verge of doing something that she rarely did out loud: admitting she had made a major academic mistake. One of the Pixies seemed to be preparing to take wing again, and she decided to be merciful and merely Stupefied it, rather than going for her patented quick and nasty Stinging Hex. The other creatures took one look at their unconscious companion and gave up all hope of a riotous tour of the school, spreading mayhem and confusion. The look in the young girl's eye promised too much misery for them if that course was followed. They obediently marched back into one of the cages that the current DADA teacher at Hogwarts had released them from a few moments earlier, though not without mutterings and grumblings in their obscure Celtic dialect.

"Perhaps Professor Lockhart might be a little bit of a fraud, after all, Neville," she said to the boy nearest her, who was currently reinforcing the conjured nets that held most of the Special Live Exhibits that the Professor had persuaded the school to rent for the week to give the students an opportunity to practice their defensive skills on annoying but not lethal targets. Hermione had been so very disappointed when said Professor had managed to somehow not have an appropriate spell ready when he had released the creatures, and had fled when he realized that they were running amok among the students. Hermione had noted that as he had dashed out of the classroom his hair had had a most unusual movement to it, or perhaps it would be best to say, lack of movement. She'd have to confer with either Lav or Parvati to confirm her suspicions about that.

Perhaps her first suspicions should have been when she'd been told Professor Lockhart's first actions, after introducing himself, had been to give the class a test of their knowledge of Gilderoy Lockhart. It had asked questions from all seven newly required textbooks, an unrealistic expectation of effort on the first day of classes, since many of the students would have only picked up their school supplies a week or so ago. There were possible explanations for this teaching procedure, but it had somehow seemed "off" to Hermione, a feeling she had put down to her youth and ignorance of the latest magical educational theory. And in any case, if she had been in class, instead of in the infirmary, she knew she would have aced the quiz in any case.

And then there had been the way Professor Lockhart had latched onto Harry.

The events of the last summer, and what had happened on the trip up, had made Harry rather more nervous than normal at being singled out, or as he liked to say, "Targeted." Once up at school, and then being grabbed and held against a man's body, while invitations to be photographed together were voiced, had made him queasy. Invitations to become a Professor's apprentice in the art of public relations, and serve as a personal secretary in his spare time, had stirred up Harry's usually hidden rebellious streak. Evidently the personality characteristics that had gifted the Professor with Star Quality with some parts of the Wizarding population were not carrying over to his educational career.

Perhaps it was time to engage in some sort of Higher Literary Criticism on the collected works of Gilderoy Lockhart? Something that she had heard during the summer was lurking in the back of her mind; she wasn't quite sure what it was, but she remembered it was of a cautionary nature. In any case, it would give her an excuse to immerse herself once more in the Collected Works of Gilderoy Lockhart. If they were to be tested on them, it certainly made sense to refresh her memory. And maybe this time she would be able to tease out exactly how he had cured werewolves, settled the hash of Zombie hordes, unraveled all those ancient curses, and discovered all those hidden enchanted fanes and sanctuaries. Despite her usually sharp memory and analytic skills, she was still a bit hazy on exactly how he done so many of his marvelous feats.

Ω

There was no way to get around it. Harry had been (much against his will) drafted. And Ron also, though with a great deal more enthusiasm. Wood was a fanatic, it was true, and for that reason he was very hard to stop when he decided that the best flyers in the Second Year (H. Potter [Chaser] and R. Weasley [Keeper]) had to start to give something back to Gryffindor for all the benefits they received for being members in good standing. To him it was obvious that the proper way to do that giving back… was to become backup members of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. That Harry argued that whatever House they had been Sorted into would have provided much the same sort of treatment was ignored as the ravings of a confused child. Ron's eager acceptance of his fate was held up to Potter as an example he should attempt to rise to. Reluctantly, Harry went along… at least he would be getting a chance to fly regularly at the practices, and it really was fun trying to get his throws past Ron's attempts as Keeper. An added side advantage was when Malfoy found out about the situation he was heard to mutter something along the lines of that if only he hadn't been stuck in stuffy old Slytherin…

Harry soon discovered an even greater benefit from his initially reluctant enrollment in the Team. Professor Lockhart's attempts to use him as both a drudge (answering Lockhart's correspondence), and as a name to drop was severely inhibited by Professor McGonagall's insistence that her House's Quidditch Team's newest players not miss practices, even for (what she considered petty and maliciously assigned) Detentions. If that caused any increased tensions at the Staff Meetings, or when the teachers gathered for a quiet cup or stein in the Faculty Lounge, Harry neither knew nor cared. His House Head was, in his opinion, doing her job in protecting him from low company and bad influences.

His greatest complaint this year was that Professor Lockhart was displaying an even greater difficulty than Professor Quirrell (of dubious memory) in actually imparting useful DADA spells, techniques, and knowledge; both in class and in the assignments given. It was for that reason that on Sundays… as Second Years were not allowed to be off campus… he had (more by accident than plan) gathered a small group of First and Second Years for a series of games and exchanges relating to DADA. The Malfites were frequent attendees, as well as, of course, The Boys (and Hermione, who while certainly not a boy was somehow automatically included in that labeled group by all) and sometimes Kandice and/or Parvati and Lav, Ginny Weasley, Creevey (due to Harry's guilty feelings about terrorizing him at the beginning of school), Lonely Lovegood from Ravenclaw (at least that's what the others thought she was being called), and Tony G. (as he was being called, at his insistence, this year).

Spell Tag, Dodge the Hex, Show Me a New One, Swimming with the Squid, and other moral, wholesome, and upright witch and wizard amusements were the staple meat of these innocent outings onto the grounds and environs of Hogwarts. All became adept at Warming and Drying charms as the weather up in the Highlands turned chill and damp.

All-in-all, Harry thought that his Second Year was going swimmingly so far: no rabid beasts had managed to get through the Hogwarts protective wards to attack him, only two course equivalents were totally wasted (DADA a complete waste, ¾ of History of Magic being a waste, and about ¼ of Potions wasted catering to Snape's ego and emotional problems), he was with his friends, and he was never going back to Dursleykaban.

Ω

"What, never?" Neville asked as they were sorted out into a rough column near Greenhouse Three on a relatively warm and clear Monday morning. Professor Sprout had decided to take advantage of the good weather to widen the experience of her students, and show them the winter forms of the many naturally magical things growing in the nearby and safer parts of the Forbidden Forest. The collection of wild-growing materials was an essential part of the skill repertoire of any aspiring Herbalist, and knowing what to look for in winter was important; many of the most important plants had some of their most potent essences concentrated in their roots during the cold season. Also… some of the more dangerous ones were slow and lethargic during that season, and a lot safer to collect.

"Yes, never," Harry said. "The paperwork is all done, and when the Headmaster tried to protest about how good the wards around the house were, Tonks just took his arguments apart. Since he never told me to keep quiet about things, like I had for where I lived during the summer, the old place was compromised. Anyone who wanted to know could just ask around and find out, and the protections were only good from keeping Magicals from finding the place. Muggles have no trouble; the wards are a kind of anti-Wizard charm. Otherwise the place could never have mail delivered, repairmen show up, and the electric would be turned off. Just impractical; Muggles can't live that way. So, I'm through with them, they're through with me, and everybody is a lot happier.

"There are a couple of places I might be over the summer or holidays, but I can't tell anybody until certain precautions are worked out. Still, being up here September to June suits me fine, and by the time the Term ends, things should be worked out."

"I still say you could come over to our place, we've really tightened up the wards, "Ron put in.

Hermione objected (and completely not because her home was totally unsuited for the job until such time as she could put up a incredible set of protections around it): "Really Ron, the two first places anybody looking for Harry would think of would be the Burrow and Longbottom Manor. Until we know what went after Harry last summer the best thing is to keep him hidden when he's not up at-"

At that point they all chimed in: "The Safest Place In Britain!"

The Professor had by now gotten everyone organized to her liking, and led them out towards the woods. As an added level of security, Hagrid was accompanying them, billhook in hand… just in case. Of what exactly had been left undefined, but it stirred up equal measures of both reassurance and dread in the students… precisely what had been intended.

As Herbology was both a double-length and double-sized class, there were a bit above twenty in the double file; still a very handy number for Professor Sprout to point out the distinguishing characteristics of various plants (magical and not, useful and not) as the passed from the briar-choked edges to the more open areas inside the forest where the shade of the trees kept the growth of shrubs and brambles more under control. Every now and again they would stop and gather specimens, some accompanied by groans when it meant roots would have to be excavated from the frozen ground. Just yanking them out wouldn't do, so transfigured picks (from some of the ubiquitous prickles around them) and shovels (from the shoulders of those assigned to carry them at the beginning of the march) had to be used. Harry, his hands roughened by years of ungloved gardening, and Neville, the acknowledged star student of his Year, were the mainstays of the effort.

It was Susan Bones of Hufflepuff who made the most interesting discovery about forest life that day. While she and her close friend, Hannah Abbot, were enjoying the sight of the Gryff boys brushing away the snow that hadn't melted yet from an early season storm (protected from the sun by the shadows of the trees) she saw something white and seemingly suspended in midair between two tree trunks.

"What's that? Looks awfully like a mummy, but I didn't know the Egyptians ever got this far north."

Hermione was about to tell her all about the indications that Mycenaeans had left their graffiti at Stonehenge when, moving forward, she actually spotted what Susan had been talking about. It certainly looked like a well wrapped mummy, suspended in the middle of a gigantic spider's web. But a spider's web, even one with thread as thick as that, couldn't have lasted since then, could it?

As the students gathered in a clot around the suspended thing it was, oddly enough, Hagrid who supplied the background for their discovery.

"Oh, the Acromantula always wrap up their catch, iffin they don' finish it off righ' when they catch it."

"How big are these Acromantilla?" Ron Weasley asked, a very fake smile pasted on his face.

"They'll be, a big one 'at is, maybe fifteen hunnerd or more pounds. O' course, my little Aragog must be more'n a ton by now; he's a healthy one!

"Now, one thing that's interestin' t' know," Hagrid said as he stepped forward with his billhook in hand, "'s that in winter time they sleep the days away, in some cave they kick the bears out of, or a house they'll take over, or sumptin'."

With that he cut the clothesline thick webbing, the mummy (or whatever) fell to the ground. Hagrid delicately put the tip of the hook part into the wrapped bundle, and began to cut it away from whatever was inside.

"Couldn' do this if the weather were warmer; the thread'd be too springy and sticky.

"Ya' see, when an Acromantula catches somethin' big it'll bite it with some poison that puts it to sleep, and then hangs it up somewhere cool and out of the way. The catch will stay alive for weeks. Keeps fresh in the larder, so to speak.  
No one noticed Ron Weasley falling to the ground in a dead faint as the Groundskeeper lifted away a flap of cut netting, and revealed the desiccated face of Quirinus Quirrell, the long-lost Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor.

"Now, this 'ere fellow been out here too long to do much with, 'ceptin bury. But if we'da been here a few months ago we might 'ave rescued him. If we coulda fought off a whole bunch of great big beasties!" Hagrid said with a laugh.

Hannah Abbott joined Mr. Weasley on the ground, and not a few others from the party felt more than a bit queasy. Especially when, as Hagrid was lifting the corpse up onto his shoulder for its return to Hogwarts for a proper burial, the back portion of the covering fell away from Professor Quirrell's head, and the grotesque face on the back of it was also revealed.

Ω

Hermione, Neville, and Harry teased him, of course. That was their right, as his best friends. George and Fred… well, they were his brothers. If anyone else tried though, they all shouted them down. And that's what family and best friends do. So Ron, even though not being teased at all would have been far better, was at least tolerably content. Especially as Hannah could join with him complaining about that sort of treatment, her getting much of the same, even being in Hufflepuff.

Of course, everyone who had been on Sprout's expedition was a minor celebrity for the next few weeks, and the more lurid the description of Quirrell's remains was, the greater the awe and respect for the intrepid explorer. "And that's why they call it the Forbidden Forest, you see," was the usual ending for such retellings of the events. The effects of the recovery of the body had rather more far-reaching effects beyond the student body, however.

When Gilderoy Lockhart saw the pitiful corpse, especially the Janus-like skull, he turned a distinct tint of green. When the fates of some of the other recent DADA professors was recounted to him by his colleagues (by Professors Snape, Flitwick, and McGonagall in particular) he quite lost his lunch, and was even too upset to magically clean up the mess afterwards. If the Headmaster had had a rolodex he would, at that point, have started checking it for a possible mid-season replacement. Having to pull the extra duty last school year had been only right, all things considered. But he had no desire to try to do a schedule like that again if he could help it.

Ω

"But shouldn't a real wizard have been able to blast the damn spider away?" Ron asked, hoping more than anything that the answer would be 'yes.' His nightmares had come back, and while his roommates had been understanding at first, after the first week of being woken up by his night-time screaming, they had rushed to learn silencing charms to put either onto his bed, or their own ears before going to sleep.

"Well, Ron, " Hermione said, " the spiders could have got him while he was asleep, or jumped on him suddenly and knocked his wand out of his hand. If you scale things up, something like an Acromantula should be able to jump fifty, sixty feet at least! Do you know if they found his wand with him? Oh, and maybe it shot out a thread of sticky web and just pinned his arms down right from the start."

"Not helping, Hermione," Harry said.

She ducked her head in embarrassment. Despite the teasing they did of Ron, everyone secretly agreed that being frightened of an intelligent (the IQ of an adult Acromantula being just a bit more than one standard deviation from human level), web shooting, jumping, huge, poisonous, carnivorous spider was reasonable in the main. She would have tried to give Ron psychological therapy, except she knew she would never be able to live with herself if something drastic happened and he had a meltdown. The Owl Post message that Mrs. Weasley would have sent her in that case was a daunting thought, also.

She'd brought up pretty much that problem, what quick and powerful spell could they use against a powerful, leaping… (etc.) enemy at the DADA class last week. The answer had not been clear, and the recommendation that the students re-read _Wanderings with Werewolves_ (by Gilderoy Lockhart) was not at all helpful.

Somehow, when Lovegood told them (they had shifted their Sunday recreational games and spell practices to a currently un-used classroom, the weather outside being normal Northern Scottish winter weather) that for the pertinent years (as recorded in _Magical Me, an Autobiography _by Gilderoy Lockhart) there was no record in the House Annals of a Ravenclaw Quidditch Seeker named Lockhart, no one was all that surprised. Hermione was only chagrined that she had never actually got around to doing the research herself, but she tried not to hold it against the younger girl, who seemed to be having some problems in her own House right then. And her name was 'Luna,' not 'Lonely,' which said much to Hermione, who tried to give her a cheerful hello whenever they passed in the halls.

Ω

"Harry, would you mind terribly, if the next time you send a letter to you-know-where you included a request from me that, perhaps, you-know-him, or you-know-her, might send us a bit of advice on, well, vicious and violent spells, and how to cast them? I realize they might not- "

At that point Harry had smiled, and put a quieting finger over her lips. He took it away far too quickly in her opinion, but she allowed him to voice his interruption in any case.

"I've thought about it, but I think I've got something better planned. It'll be Winter Holiday soon, and rather than do something honest and aboveboard, and easily traceable in that line, I've guilt-tripped the Headmaster into letting me sign up to stay here for it. Instead, I'll just be here a day or so, and take a walk off the school grounds, where she/he/etc., will whisk me away to… maybe not paradise, but certainly a better place than this. When I come back, same route, I'll have a trunk load of stuff for us to use.

"Had to really work on Nev and Ron not to kidnap me for my own good, but I think I've got them all going in the right direction now."

"You will let the Headmaster know where you'll be going, won't you?" Hermione asked in a worried voice. The idea of a comedic series of frantic searchers (with very varying motivations) running into each other during the Holiday, with spectacular collusions, routs, and general elements of farce, was strongly attractive to her, but if the Headmaster had been told that Harry would be at school for the period, and suddenly disappeared he'd probably be unfairly panicked, and he was over a hundred nowadays.

"Don't worry, he knows. I'm trying to condition him, like one of those Pavlova's dogs. Do right by me, and I'll do right by you. Just hope that particular old dog learns the trick. He's a bit long in the tooth for new concepts, like really playing straight with us students!"

"Good," Hermione said. "It's the proper way to do things." Then her face took on a sly grin. "And when you really do plan on pulling a fast one on him, he won't be as prepared."

Ω

On the trip back to London The Boys (-1) sat together; Ron and Neville turning a suspicious eye at each opening of the compartment door, their hands drifting casually toward their wands. Hermione was a great deal more casual and tried to keep things light; she knew that despite whatever she told them they considered themselves on duty as her bodyguards. It was endearing, but she was quite certain that the only one who could possibly have benefitted from a bodyguard was up at Hogwarts for the next day or so.

Perhaps an hour into the trip Ginny Weasley popped in, and refused to accept their assurances that Harry was staying up at school. She practically demanded that he be turned over to her. It seemed her prestige in her dorm was completely dependent on her close association with the Boy-Who-Lived. Or else her coming domination of the Quidditch team as soon as 'they' let her join and lead it to victory. Whichever. In any case, Ginny persisted in looking at Hermione in a suspicious manner, as if she had taken to carrying Harry around in her pocket. That was totally ridiculous… at least until she had taken Sixth Year Transfiguration.

By the fourth time his sister just happened to stop in as she was just passing by, Ron's recently gained patience slipped a bit. There was only so many times he could stand being called a liar when he wasn't currently being one. Her response to his perfectly polite request to take her lazy arse out of there was met with one of her typical unreasonable tantrums, and a threat, sliding over into her weapon of first resort, an obnoxious hex that cleaned out Ron's nasal passages in a most painful way.

Her indignation, when her entire body spasmed on receiving an accurate and over-powered Stinging Hex, while simultaneously being flipped ass over teakettle, banging her head brutally against a wall, was epic to behold. If Neville hadn't managed to scoop up her wand right after her body hit the floor it cannot be doubted that major brawl would have occurred. But, disarmed and outnumbered, she backed out of the compartment, using language Hermione was sure would have shocked Molly Weasley if she had heard her daughter using it in public.

As a recovered Ron was handed her wand, to be returned only when the train had arrived at the London terminus, Neville commented: "She's a good witch, I guess, but I wonder if she'll turn out to be a good witch."

Ω

Back home, in the domestic bosom of her family, Hermione baked a fruitcake, wrapped it in metal foil, and sent it up to Hogwarts addressed to Harry Potter. She had followed her mother's directions as carefully as if it had been a Potions recipe, included in the covering note that it wouldn't really be ready for another week or so (fruitcake often need a bit of extra time to properly mellow), and had included just a bit of de-scented Juice of Moly (which had done Ulysses so much good in the Odyssey). It also had the property, of course, to counteract many harmful potions (as Circe had discovered) it came into contact with. Since it could also mess up the effects of any potions people were taking for medical reasons it was usually only used at need. Most well-run Magical households with young children had a bottle of Moly Juice somewhere towards the back of the family medical cabinet, usually with the date of 'best used by' well in the past.

Having done her best to spread the holiday spirit by Post, she took up the challenge of living it in reality. Catching up with old Muggle acquaintances was oddly poignant. Her last year completely in the Muggle world had been eased by her finally finding some acquaintances that had seemed to have been trending toward real friendship. It was awkward to have to dodge questions about how her school was, beyond its beastly climate and co-educational nature. For example, none of the others seemed to have a Chemistry Classroom with a sign '_ days since our last painful accident' that never had the number get out of the single digits. Different worlds entirely.

Somehow her more perceptive acquaintances seemed to get the idea that she was currently involved, romantically, with three or more boys, no matter how she tried to make it clear that Neville, Harry, Ron, and Fred were just good friends. Evidently the idea of just being friends with boys was considered in their Muggle schools as merely being a dim memory of Primary School days. It really was a different world. They were nice enough people, just… drifting away. Only their mutual regard for hot chocolate drinks in that season of freezing winds remained as a common binder. Not enough to build a relationship on. On both sides, as they parted, there was the secret knowledge that the promises 'I'll write as soon as I get the chance' was nothing more than the most common polite fiction.

Ω

She got together with her roommates for a foray into Muggle London, where they went to a Pantomime (**Puss in Boots**), as well as a carefully conducted (and expensive) foray to three shops: one a traditional sweets shop, one dealing with cosmetics, and one to Hamleys Toy Shop (est. 1760) for a suitable holiday overdose of the caloric, the beautiful, and the cute. Impoverished, and oblivious to it, the exhausted quintet made their arrangements for the ride up to school before parting.

She, and Mother, had taken a trip into the Alley earlier in the month and finally picked up a good, basic, Post Owl. The savings on the messages carried that holiday season alone between the Longbottoms, Weasleys, and the Grangers almost paid for it, for it was the mainstay of her Magical communications system, often doing two deliveries a day at some of its stops. The need for a Granger Owl was obvious: the Weasley Owl was more than a bit past it, and the Longbottoms' one was fully engaged in helping with arranging Lady Augusta's profuse and intricate social life, so the Granger one developed a set of wing muscles to be admired by all who understood that sort of thing. Hermione had wanted to name it Pheidippides (after the messenger), but was persuaded that the name was too long, and finally decided on Paul (another messenger, and one who didn't drop dead right after he delivered his missive).

To her relief and delight there was no 'Incident on the Hogwarts Express' this trip up. Only a delightful yo-yoing between the compartment with the Boys and some friends discussing the mystery of the day (a seeming rash of unexplained and symptomless deaths among the more sottish elements of Wizarding society, leading to an inspection of all the Fire Whiskey distilling firms), thankfully having nothing to do with Hogwarts, Potter, or the price of Basilisk venom (through the roof, due to the rarity of the deadly buggers), and her roommates' (and Lovegood's) one.

There was the smallish event when Malfoy showed that he had not neglected his lessons in Slytherin cunning, and had showed up (minus bookends) just as The Boys had emptied their pockets of their spare cash and decimated the Sweet Vender's trolley of its most delightful cargo. His raid was so well timed that the evidence was still out in the open, and there was no decent way for them to deny him least a sampling of certain items that he claimed he had never had before, and was curious about. A suitable revenge began to be plotted as soon as he left the compartment.

Ω

It was a little confusing as to why Lovegood was riding up with them. Ordinarily Hermione would have thought that the girl would have been sitting with her roommates. Failing that, Ginny Weasley was practically a next door neighbor, and Percy had babysat for Ron, Ginny, and Lovegood before he had come up to Hogwarts. Yet Ginny was busy with another set of friends, and had no time for the girl.

For a Firsty she had been holding up her end of the Sunday Potter led get-togethers, so despite a degree of eccentricity notable even for Magical circles, the Gryff Girls gave her a place to park her bottom, a portion of the share-out of the Paternal Back-to-School baskets, and when the gentle rocking of the train soothed them all toward quietness, and some to napping, her shoulder was a very nice height for a drooping head to be supported by.

Ω

It wasn't until she had got back into the dorm that she got the two-fold indications that all was not right, or even normal, in her local environment.

Bliggi (House-Elf extraordinary, and almost a member of their circle due to her ability to round up useful bits of ribbon, cloth, and sometimes essential female sanitary products on short notice), who had insisted on immediately redoing Fay's bed with the new flannel sheets she'd gotten after reminding her parents exactly how uncomfortable a Hogwarts winter could be on a person's toes, had made a comment that she was glad the Beast wouldn't be coming back to ruin her work. This had, naturally, led to a few questions.

On Boxing Day morning, she narrated with glee at being the center of attention; she had come up to just give everything a bit of a dusting, when she discovered all of the dormitory rooms had been thoroughly and messily ripped apart. Desks had been rifled, bedding disturbed, things hung up thrown to the floor; in short, proper chaos and immorality (to a House-Elf). In point of fact Bliggi had checked with some of her compatriots that day, and every dorm and residence in the castle except for the Slytherin one had been devastated; including those of Professors Flitwick, McGonagall, Sprout, Lockhart, and Sinistra. Immediately thereafter the School Wards had been raised to a higher level of alertness, and it had been perfect Hell trying to maintain the old pile ever since.

No magical creature could cross the magical property line, not even if carrying in essential supplies, without having an authorized Professor at the spot to open a short-termed gateway into the property. Not all the Professors necessarily being quite competent enough to actually open such a gateway had proved to be a great inconvenience, for without such help an honest House-Elf on its legitimate assignment would be coming over all sick-like trying to carry the needed eggs-and-bacon-for-breakfast in. All Floo connections were to be turned off when not in use. Yes, it had been a perfect Hell for the last few weeks.

Hermione had quietly excused herself right after that information was received. There was a good chance the Boys hadn't heard about this; they had never mentioned dealings with the House-Elves since the Halloween trap of last year. Except for their trips after-hours to the kitchen they probably never thought about the creatures, much less talked to them. They had to be brought into the loop on this.

Ω

When she entered the Boys' room she saw all of them, including Seamus, Dean, George, Fred, and Percy, clustered around a desk near a window, looking down on something while first Fred, and then Percy, cast some sort of spell. It was Harry who showed a higher state of awareness, and was the first to notice she had come in. He waved her over. "An old family recipe?" Harry asked.

There, on one of the simple writing desks that Hogwarts had originally (1724 AD) had the Fifth Year Transfiguration students create was an opened sheet of metal foil with what might have once been a meatloaf, or perhaps even (if one was imaginative enough) a fruitcake, on it. The metal was corroded, even burned through at one point, while the loaf (of some sort) was now showing signs of aspiring to become a huge charcoal briquette. Occasionally a little puff of smoke coursed out of some cranny or pit in the surface, perhaps where some innocent raisin or walnut that had once broken the golden surface the loaf had once been. Moly was an innocent thing; the worst usual reaction was to induce vomiting as it chased and pulled some putrid potion out of the system of the afflicted. This sort of result had far exceed any fears Harry and she had had when they talked about this little test of the sanctity of the Owl Post.

"How could a potion have done that to my cake?" she demanded.

"A potion didn't," Percy said. "There were at least three added to it in transit, and also I think at least two of the more dangerous alkaloid poisons. The interactions are… unique, I think."

The cake took that opportunity to split apart with a dull 'crack', and the interior showed various coloured veins, similar to the sort of diagram a geology text might have of the lava flows leading up from the center of the Earth to the surface volcanoes.

"Odds on," Harry said, "that even if you hadn't prepared our little surprise, the three or four or five people who managed to get their hands on this innocent baked good managed to ruin it without knowing that they were all after the same thing. What is that thing from the books you love so? Yes… 'oft evil shall evil mar.' Or maybe it's, 'too much of a bad thing is a bloody mess.' Whatever, we were right, and that's the important thing."

Hermione had started with such hopes that at least the Post, one of the foundations of civilization, would prove to be pure and uncorrupted. The smoking evidence before her was almost as depressing as the news about the ability of the Beast (at least until Hogwarts had gone onto Limited Moderate Lockdown) to extend its rampage into the school. Still, she would have been remiss if she had neglected to do her duty…

"Ahh, guys…

Author's Note:

Special thanks to Nathan Huss, my ever diligent proof-reader and continuity monitor, for providing the dialect for Hagrid.

Editor's Note:

Said dialect being the best one could do on memory of just what Hagrid's accent is actually supposed to be like, other than noticeable.


	11. Chapter 11

I do not own, or receive any benefit from the Harry Potter properties.

Palimpsest

Making new friends, losing old ones: Chapter 11

By Larry Huss

As might be imagined, the news Hermione brought to the already agitated group caused consternation. The knowledge that a rampaging monster of indeterminate nature might be even then prowling the grounds, or hiding in one of the long lost chambers or hidden caverns that Hogwarts was rumored to have in abundance, was not calculated to make any of the listeners sleep well of a night. The general consensus was that whatever menace was being labeled as 'the Beast' was either extending its field of potential victims, or was becoming desperate in its quest to spill the blood and gnaw the bones of Harry James Potter.

For Harry, the speculations were not unalloyed bad news. At least he (perhaps) wasn't uniquely vulnerable, and being now one fish in the sea granted him a certain dubious obscurity from focused hostile intentions. As to the Beast becoming desperate, as Percy put it: "It sounds as if it's running out of time." How could that be bad news? However, for those whose rooms had been devastated, even the intrepid DADA teacher, a sense of unusual vulnerability became part of their daily worries.

Percy Weasley, optimist that he was, had reported the delivery of the Fruitcake of Doom to their Head of House. But, not at all to Hermione's surprise, no further inquiry were seen to be made, and the violation of the sanctity of the Owl Post seemed to cause not a ripple of official concern. Perhaps it was Neville who said it best, though.

"We thought for years that Harry's mail's been managed. Otherwise he'd have been getting tons of the stuff every year at that Muggle place he was at. Now that's he's out in the open, so to speak, a few people seem to be cleared to contact him. Your package, unless that's your regular baking skill… don't hit so hard! Your package just shows why. Not just bad things people might send him, but tampering by Those People was avoided. Harry might have missed out with a lot of Christmas presents, but I bet a few poisoned lollys were also kept away from him, and that was a bit more important.

"Sometimes it might be a pain to be around the 'Boy Who Lived', but I for one am all for keeping Harry Potter as the 'Boy Who Keeps On Living.'"

Ω

Harry had been as good as his word in his promise to Hermione, and he started the next session of their informal, un-named, and totally unofficial DADA self-study group with a demonstration of a shielding spell, a silent movement spell, and an unlocking spell that he said was beyond the Second Year syllabus (if they had actually had one beyond the collected works of Gilderoy Lockhart), and perhaps beyond the Fourth Year one. Even the Twins stopped fooling around, as the combination of Quirrell and Lockhart had pretty much ruined their DADA training for the last two years, no matter how advanced they might feel themselves to be in self-taught dual-purpose Potions and the very oddest of Charms. Malfoy, who was there that session, naturally claimed he could do better.

Even more naturally enough, Ron challenged him to put his wand where his mouth was, and in order not to have a Weasley have the last word Draco demonstrated an absolutely delightful cutting hex. It wasn't as deep, long, or absolutely straight as the spell might have allowed, but for a Second Year it was certainly impressive, if a bit exhausting. The looks of awe from the majority of group, and the acknowledgement from Ron, "All right, you do know your stuff," was both gratifying and a bit unsettling. The feeling of gratification was easy to explain; the unsettling part was that Draco realized he actually enjoyed being praised for an _accomplishment_. He was a Malfoy. He should have received their adoration for that fact alone, being looked at with approval and praise should have been a natural adjunct to his mere existence. The fact that praise felt even better because it was an external to his bloodline's inherited awesomeness should have almost been upsetting. Instead, it felt right, as if he had actually enjoyed that he had _earned_ his increased status among them. If respect (and its rewards) were given for merit… than people like Granger might really be as good (maybe better) as some of those with long and honorable wizarding genealogies. There were disturbing implications to that sort of thought. He stood up at the head of the classroom and taught the others the hex anyway.

As a type of one-upsmanship, at the next session Harry brought out a combination charm that shot out an expanding cone of blinding light and unnerving sound in the direction of his wand's tip. Draco dredged up a memory of a scene from the previous summer and half-managed an explosion on a chair forty feet away. Damning himself for revealing his limited knowledge, he waited for the catcalls and derision. Instead he was embarrassingly asked to repeat it until he got back into his rhythm. By the time of the next study session, the knowledge that he would be expected to tutor the others in such an eminently useful and inspiring spell forced him to practice until he had perfected his casting, and demolished the unconjured piece of furniture into a fountain of splinters. Applause followed, and an unusually modest blush appeared on his face.

But when they did some practice dueling (no potentially fatal spells to be used), Neville's shield turned out to be the deciding factor in his being the unofficial victor, with Hermione's accurate and fast Stinging Hex letting her come in a distant second. She immediately made a mental note to spend at least two half-hour sessions a week working on her shield spell (really Harry's Auror-taught shield spell), and Malfoy's… the explosive one. She might as well parlay her accuracy and speed in casting toward targeting specific targets, and let it become her specialty. One could never know when the Beast would discover a way through the school wards, and when (not if, she was certain) that happened, she would be ready!

After the sessions, similar thoughts were present in the minds of most of the attendees (calling them members would have run up against the bylaws for student organizations at Hogwarts). 'If we're doing this level of stuff all by ourselves,' they thought, 'why are we paying good Galleons for a series of inept Teachers?' Malfoy had another complaint, which he never quite dared bring up with the others. In two years of History not one Malfoy had been named from among those who had led the Wizarding World. A Minister for Magic, a Hogwarts Headmaster, and assorted pioneering Potions Masters… none of them ever received even the slightest mention. He would write to his father about that!

Ω

Ron was deeply ashamed of himself.

That Sunday, right after the regular Defense training session (during which Bulstrode had shown, thankfully not on him, the ability of certain domestic charms to literally pull the rug out from someone's feet), had broken up the Animagus training of Hermione, Harry, Neville, and Fred was discussed among the select company that knew about it in the first place. The further advances made in that transformation were exhibited, and advice spread pretty around. Ron almost regretted his inability to join in the fun, but only almost.

Harry had wandered off by himself afterwards, saying that he might end up missing supper, but would probably get something from the kitchens later. Neville had been blasé about it, and Hermione seemed so calm that Ron felt that she must be-in-the-know about something. So, instead of meekly going to Sunday dinner, he slipped away from the others and followed Harry out onto the dark grounds of Hogwarts Castle, keeping out of sight and sound, until the boy ducked into a small grove of trees, and disappeared from sight.

Ron followed cautiously and saw, by the half-moonlight, Harry talking animatedly with a tall and perhaps bearded man, going through the movements of casting spells, and obviously informing him of what had been going on earlier that evening.

Ron somehow felt both hot and cold at the same time. Who was Harry talking to about their most secret doings? How could he betray their confidences so? Then the man turned into a large, black dog.

OK, that was different.

Ω

It was Hermione who came upon the body first, if only by a moment. There was Filch, caught in an intimate moment with his cat, Mrs. Norris. His fingers tucked behind her ear, her head turned toward the same direction he had been facing, him kneeling there with a tidbit for her in his other hand, and both made of a fine-grained sandstone. Hermione stopped dead in the murky puddle that had seeped up from a new underground spring, and which was attempting to undermine the vast bulk of Hogwarts. Her shoes slowly leaked through as Draco Malfoy came up behind her and provided the perfect bon-mot: "What the…?"

They stood there for a few moments, an unlikely but inevitable pair. He, to try to arrange a modus viviendi with his greatest foe. Her, to make sure he wasn't bushwhacked while coming to the agreed upon meeting with Daphne Greengrass in one of the lesser-used passages that traversed the under-basements of the Castle.

Things were not made much better when the aforementioned young witch appeared from the other direction, her wand alight, and took in the whole scene in a glance.

"What have you done, Granger? Oh, it's Filch," Greengrass observed. "Congratulations, you got that mangy cat too. Hello Malfoy." The last part was said very like a growl. She had agreed to come to this parlay only on the urgings of her more peace-loving friends. For herself, war to the knife had a certain sweet tang to it. She didn't mind that Malfoy was her rival in looks in her Year and House; she was far from petty about such things. His endless snobbery was annoying, but she could have handled that by merely cutting him dead (socially) at every occasion. No, she was happy to tell anyone who would listen, it was his endless use of his family's connections and the blatant favoritism he was shown that rankled her.

Within the first week he had let it leak that he would be the star student of the First Year in Potions, having received illegal coaching for several years from the Potions Master, their House-Head, his Godfather! Daphne Greengrass would never hold an honest distinction against someone. Muggle-born Granger earning a constant trickle of points for Gryffindor due to her unhealthy obsession with study? Well… she earned them, and the poor dear would always be at a disadvantage in the Wizarding World, let her have her petty triumphs in school. Percy Weasley catching poisoners and arresting miscreants (Daphne thought too highly of Love to forgive someone who tried to cheat at it with chemicals)? More power to him! That's what a Prefect was supposed to do, after all. Malfoy's constant yammering about his family and his father (Imperiused to serve the Dark Lord her right buttock!) in that first week at school had set her teeth on edge from the start. How he had protected his minions from their rightful punishment, as far back as the day of their first Flying lesson was never far from her mind, and always at the top of her list of Reasons Draco Malfoy Should Suffer!

It was, in truth, a little sad that one of Draco's more benign characteristics… loyalty and protectiveness towards his friends (even Pansy, when she was still around)… was one of the root causes of his estrangement from his Housemate. But, just as we are sometimes forgiven our faults, sometimes we are condemned for our virtues. Funny old world.

But now the three stood looking at the unexpected piece of statuary. Speculations and questions raced through their active young minds. As might be expected, it was Hermione who was first out of the gate with a plan of action.

"Malfoy, get to the Infirmary and get Matron, then a Professor. The Headmaster would be best, but anyone should do. Except Lockhart."

The other two nodded, that last piece of direction clinched it for them. Draco took off at a run, while Daphne mused out loud.

"You didn't go yourself, because…?"

"If I'd left you and Malfoy here together, alone, there would have been at least one more body not moving when I got back."

"Hmmm, sounds about right."

Ω

In the few moments before Matron Pomfrey appeared, the two girls careful inspected the locality, avoiding touching the bodies for several reasons: the first being… suppose whatever got Filch and Mrs. Norris (and what ever happened to Mr. Norris, one may ask) was contagious. And the other was… touching Filch under any conditions was simply unthinkable.

Both girls had mastered a number of spells that allowed them to illuminate the corridor, and it was Daphne that noticed a peculiarity about certain scuff marks on the floor. They had started as a slight elongation of the puddle on the stone pavement, and then become increasingly faint smears of mud, until they disappeared at a blank and solid wall.

Hermione's eyes became slightly unfocused, and she began to mutter lowly to herself. She began to lift her wand, and then suddenly her left hand smacked down on her right, bringing the magic stick to a neutral position. Daphne's look of enquiry was unmistakable.

In a slightly shaky voice Hermione answered the unasked question. "I was going to get very clever. Probably too clever by half. And if I messed things up by showing off, Harry would never let me live it down. Proper procedure, you know."

Daphne didn't, but before she could progress further on that line of thought the Cavalry arrived. Or at least a significant part of the teaching staff. Madame Pomfrey was there, as the first one Draco had informed of the whole sad affair, and also, as punishment for their sins no doubt, Professor Lockhart. Professor Snape bustled in, so quickly that he didn't even bother to have his robes billowing behind him, and also Professor Vector (looking somewhat winded) was guided to the location by a grinning Malfoy. His glee was easy to understand; something tremendous was happening, he was in on it from the start, and it certainly couldn't be blamed on him at all! What more could a lively boy ask for?

It must be admitted that for a certain value of 'amusement' the next few minutes were amusing. Professor Snape was quickly informed of the odd markings on the floor by Daphne, and bent over in a most comical stoop, his great nose almost touching the stone pavement as he followed them to their indefinite conclusion. He began to poke and probe at the wall where the marks lead, but neither finger tapping nor muttered spell managed to make the cold stones speak (metaphorically or otherwise). Meanwhile, Madame Pomfrey preformed a quick series of diagnostic spells on both man and cat. Except for unmistakable evidence of recent magical energies being exhibited the situation was one outside of her previous experience. It was Gilderoy Lockhart who managed to prove himself more talented than expected by the three students.

Finding his bespoke-appearing half-boots were less than completely impervious (it really pays to get the full assortment of waterproofing charms, instead of the cut-rate type) to the slow little rivulet that was feeding the puddle in the corridor he preformed, purely as a public service he insisted, a very successful Area Drying Charm, which had the added benefit of turning any mud smears in the area into a fine dust that blew away with the faintest of air currents.

It was then that Daphne perceived what Hermione had been talking about in the matter of "Proper Procedure."

Professor Snape's use of vile language at the disappearance of the mysterious trail of evidence was as instructional, in a slightly different way, than any lesson he had given in the classroom that year. Professor Vector, on the other hand, was merely quietly appalled at the destruction of evidence at the scene of an assault. Her father had been an Auror and had often spiced up dinner time conversations at home with humorous anecdotes about novice investigators that had ruined certain cases by unwitting actions and promiscuous spell castings.

With nothing likely to be lost anymore, Hermione decided to go for broke, and asked Professor Snape to cast as powerful a Silencing Charm as he could on the spot where the tracks had disappeared before they had disappeared.

"When, Miss Granger, when did you receive the authority to order your Professors around? Has the Headmaster appointed you the Hogwarts Thief-Finder General? Five points from Gryffindor!"

A red haze did not, precisely, cover over her vision, but there was a note of asperity in her voice as she recklessly answered. "I have an idea, Professor, which seems more than you do at the moment. Give me detentions for the rest of the year, or fail my next five potions in class, but I've need of a really good Silencing Charm on that spot, if you would be so kind!"

A smile, that some might have called sinister, appeared on Snape's face. If Little Miss Know-It-All was volunteering for detentions… she was not quite as useless as most Second Years, and there was always scutwork to be done in a precise manner. Just her style, and what he would use her for.

Professor Lockhart, buoyed up by his recent success in front of the students and his colleagues, forced the issue: "I'll do it; just a moment!" And he pointed his wand and cast his best shot.

From the horrified looks on Hermione's and Professor Snape's faces Draco knew at once that something was desperately wrong, and he threw himself in the path of the sickly yellow spell. His body intercepted it, and as his foot impacted the floor it made the entire corridor reverberate with the sound of rubber-soled boot (how else to sneak up on people in a place with all hard flooring?) meeting gneiss. "**What just happened?" ** Young Malfoy asked mildly, as all the others covered their ears wincing with pain.

"I've invented a Super-Sonorus!" Professor Lockhard shouted (but still less in volume than Draco's wondering whisper) with glee.

Having seen the effect on others, and felt it himself, Malfoy kept silent and still.

After a hurried consultation between the two girls, Daphne led a tip-toeing, kettle-drum sounding, Draco far down the hall. He felt completely safe in her hands at that moment. If she attacked all he had to do was scream in agony and she'd probably end up bleeding out of both ears. In fact, perhaps it would be fun… no, Granger was up to something and it would be far more entertaining to see her either succeed, or fail.

Professor Snape now felt it was incumbent for him to uphold the honour of the teaching staff. He was sure that Septima Vector could have done a good enough job, but as he would be getting Granger's services it seemed only right for him to provide her the rope to hang herself with.

Taking out a piece of chalk (the teacher's friend) he marked the spot the trail had vanished, and standing back a dozen paces applied as high powered a Silencing Charm as he could. And waited with anticipation for Miss Granger's complete downfall and humiliation.

To his surprise, he saw her take Professor Vector twenty feet of so down the corridor, and had her place her ear against the wall, with one of her hands higher up above her head (touching stone) and one downward doing the same.

"Professor Snape, if you could go a bit down that way, and do the same? Try listening for an echo, and feeling for a vibration too?" Granger asked.

He did so, an inkling of what she was doing having come to him. Damn… even if her idea didn't work, it wasn't actually stupid. That was… awkward.

As soon as he was in place Granger preformed a decent Bombarda Charm, the spell striking the chalked target and blowing away the marking, but leaving its own scorch mark as a sign of the location. Nothing was heard through the charm, but Professor Snape caught the slightest echo, and a definite vibration with his lower placed hand. But not the upper one.

"Sorry deary, didn't hear a thing," said Professor Vector.

So either Septima was deaf, or there was a tunnel behind the corridor wall at Snape's end that was… at least five-and-a-half feet tall, and going in one direction only. But he hadn't been able to reveal or discover the probable entrance where the original traces had stopped. Albus would certainly have to be brought in on this promptly, and not allowed to obfusticate what he found or suspected this time. Right now though… right now, something painful had to done.

"Very… bright, Miss Granger. No detentions this time, and six… no, seven… points for… Gryffindor."

Ω

Albus Dumbledore was frustrated, and that meant keeping his usual benign face on was particularly difficult. Especially as he so desperately wanted to blame Miss Granger for his current situation, but knew it was quite unfair. In fact, even in the Parkinson business Miss Granger had been, after all, the completely innocent victim. It was just, he thought, an old man's grumpiness when things weren't going his way.

He had never been one for the more subterranean parts of the school, not even in his youth or his prime, when the cold and humidity had been less of an annoyance. Even Warming and Drying Charms could do only so much before succumbing to the local atmosphere and damp. Thank Merlin for thick, warm, woolen socks!

Currently he was in what, according to the plans of the School he had brought down from the Headmaster's Office, was the lowest level of all the basements, dungeons, oubliettes, tunnels, and corridors of Hogwarts. So why was there every indication that an impenetrable hidden passageway was behind a wall that was diving deeper into the oozing wet earth below the castle? A direct assault on the wall had, even with his spell-craft, done little more than Miss Granger's moderately powered Bombarda spell in breaching the corridor. It was her other suggestion that had led to its flooring being ripped up, and the constant series of spells needing to be cast to remove the slow moving mud, and quicker water, that was attempting to fill the ditch/tunnel they were currently excavating. So, Muggles did this sort of thing all the time, hunting with echoes? Such interesting and ingenious primitives.

Perhaps also, he conceded, part of his short temper was the result of what he had discovered was a strange yet unfailing sort of communication. Miss Granger, or Harry, or Lord Longbottom (no, no, can't use titles at school you old fool!), or Mr. Weasley would inevitably turn up wherever one of the others were involved in something none of them should have been involved in from the beginning. If for no other reason than to keep them from gossiping and spreading all sorts of rumors around the school, as he knew quite well than forbidding them from talking would be completely useless when something as juicy as this was going on, he had allowed them to stay and see the slow and tedious work of discovery. Of course, with four Gryffindors currently taking up space, Severus had demanded that at least those of his House who had been in on the original discovery should also be allowed to witness… whatever they found.

In a way, though, Headmaster Dumbledore was having a kind of fun he had missed for years, until last year's emergency had reminded him of it. These, some of the brightest of the students of their Year, were being taught the nitty-gritty of magic. The demolition and construction needed to follow the hidden tunnel was showing them how in the real world spells worked, not just a classroom demonstration. Banishing or moving waste, shoring up sides, accurately measuring and keeping things in the true. He'd even been able to let them do some of the actual shoring up and marking for the excavations. He was teaching talented students again, and it felt right.

Of course, the main work had to be done by Severus and himself. Septima had classes to teach that no one else could really substitute for, while Severus had merely to put up a short note on his blackboard that his students would be given a test on the next class day on a potion they hadn't yet mastered, and they should study for it on such and such pages of their text, to be free for the rest of the day. Professor Lockhart had exercised one of his more mysterious abilities, that of disappearing when hard labor appeared in the offing. As for himself… he'd rather be down here in the ooze than up in his office dealing with the muck of more politics.

Ω

"Looks a little precarious to me," said Draco to Ron, pointing to one of the more precarious looking piles.

The great stone blocks taken up from the floor were easily a ton apiece, maybe more, and were piled up raggedly in a series of what would have been ten foot tall wobbly columns, if their great weight hadn't been enough to make them grind down firmly on each other.

"I'm sure that the Headmaster knows his business," replied Ron, with a note of irritation. Fancy Malfoy criticizing Headmaster Dumbledore!

"And I don't see Professor Snape complaining, so shouldn't it pass your inspection?"

"Yes, it should. His Godfather can do no wrong, just ask him," Daphne added.

"It looks like the Professors have discovered the bottom of that secret tunnel. From here it looks like the sort of built-up thing some insects build with spit and sand. But it's all on a larger scale here. At least six feet around!" Of necessity, as a Herbology prodigy, Neville had become more than a casual student of insect pests, their habits, habitats, and their predators. If he could shine a bit in front of a good looking girl, and avoid the start of the next round of the Slytherin Feud… all to the good all around.

"They still can't just knock a hole in it, though," he continued. "Whoever made that tunnel must have a lot of magic."

Ron was still musing on the piled stone paving blocks: "Looks a little like the pancakes Mum makes at home, after Forge gets done with 'em. They developed this prank spell… 'Oleum' I think they call it… makes them all slip about. A really tall stack will actually go right off the plate onto the table. Drives Mum spare, having her cookin' get all messy, and on the table to boot. Not that her table ain't clean enough to eat off of!" he finished defensively.

Draco said nothing. At home the House-elves always brought the food to the table. It was always as much a piece of decorative and architectural art as a work of culinary skill. He imagined for a moment a towering stack of pancakes. He'd seen them at Hogwarts, and even when he'd gone over early to visit at Greg Goyle's house. Never tasted them, though. Greg, putting greats spurts of sauce… no, it was called syrup, wasn't it? Anyway, Greg loading them up with sweet stuff and slicing through them, and stuffing pieces of four or so into his mouth. Mrs. Goyle had always offered him some, but Draco knew enough to say that he'd already eaten. Would anyone tell on him if he indulged up here some morning? Pancakes were such… common (almost Muggle) folk food. But they always smelled so good… The thought of a yard tall pile of thin cakes slowly bending, and then cascading to the floor had definite entertainment value, but…

This was all just maudlin dithering! It wasn't how a Malfoy acted. So, asking Greengrass was an invitation to a poisoning, Wesley wasn't really as bad as he'd first seemed, but he was still… he couldn't ask a Weasley. Granger, despite her unexpected depths was still a Mu… Mu… Muggleborn. Longbottom… still almost a Squib despite his good birth. That left Potter. His equal; why did it feel good to have an equal, he was a Malfoy after all? Still… Potter.

"So, Harry, the pancakes up here any good?"

"Oh, fine. But a little unimaginative. When I make them I sometimes shake things up a bit."

"You cook, Potter?" asked Daphne.

"Yes. At first I had to. Now I still get up early, and making breakfast for people is… fun. Especially to see their faces as they come in all dull and sleepy in the morning and they see the table set and ready for them. Picks 'em right up.

"Anyway… sometimes I make Buckwheat instead of Buttermilk ones. Or put in berries, or once I put in crumbled up bits of crispy bacon. That perked everyone up." A gentle smile crossed Harry's face at the memory.

"Getting the Kitchen-elves to change their recipes, even for a special occasion is damn near impossible. Tried to get a special cake made for Tracey's birthday, they refused to make one with raspberry jam like I asked for. It's her favorite," Daphne informed them.

"House-elves live hundreds of years, I think," said Neville. "I expect after doing things one way for that long it must be quite a wrench to start taking special orders."

The others nodded at the idea. From there the conversation, with occasional comments on the cylindrical nature of the increasingly exposed secret tunnel, wandered about discussing the natures and foibles of the Hogwarts House-elves, and their resistance to change. For instance, it had taken a positive campaign by the Patil twins (with much support by the Gryff girls and many a Ravenclaw), and ably advanced by Bliggi ("What a darling!" said Daphne when Hermione had brought up the name) as an advocate to get a basic Curry added to the menu for the Winter months. Draco wondered why the others were all so enthusiastic about the idea. Curry… beyond being some beastly foreign thing to eat it was evidently also all-the-rage. Something more to risk on, then. He began to feel quite the culinary explorer.

Ω

Professor Snape was surprisingly cheerful, for someone whose clothing was mud splattered, and who had been engaged in hard magical work for the last two hours. There were several reasons for that unusual state: Draco and Greengrass seemingly had buried the hatchet. Albus was even more besmirched than he was, and his precious socks were undoubtedly chillingly soaked by now, and whatever they were doing now was new and unprecedented and interesting! Teaching endless classes of ignorant and untalented children was so tedious that he had to make what amusement he could to prevent himself from falling asleep in class. But now… an unsuspected array of tunnels (he was beginning to see a bifurcation in the tunnel they had been uncovering) _within_ the structure of Hogwarts itself! That was something new under the sun. At least for a little time he had the pleasure of Albus being equally ignorant as he was himself, a rare event considering how much the Headmaster kept under his pointy hat.

As the students did another stint of cleaning out the trench Snape realized why they were following the hidden tunnel for such a great length before starting their serious effort to breach its wall and entering it. In a short time they would, if his rough calculations was correct, be out from under the structure of the castle. If a collapse were to take place at least the school itself wouldn't have any towers, classrooms, or corridors tumble into a pile of rubble.

"When do you think we'll clear the walls?" Snape asked his superior.

Revealingly, without a trace of a twinkling gaze, Dumbledore replied, "Perhaps a dozen or more paces, certainly no more than twenty. I see I'll have to up my game to keep you properly impressed by my omniscience, Severus."

"Have you ever thought of giving up the pretence? Being a mysterious Wizard among Muggles might be necessary, but pulling your arse out of a hat isn't really needed among wizards, is it?"

"Alas, besides being a teacher and student, I am also a politician. And those creatures needed to make a great show of their indispensability, lest they be discarded with yesterday's spoiled fish."

"Albus, who's your teacher now? Are you studying again under Flamel, or is there some other Hidden Master we may thank for your increased mastery of some hitherto unsuspected Art?" Snape's voice had an amused and almost teasing note to it. He couldn't often get Albus to be so candid and self-revealing.

Dumbledore shook his head, and looked back down the corridor to the students, Slytherin and Gryffindor, who were talking, and sometimes laughing, together.

"They are," Dumbledore indicated with a jerk of his head, "just as their predecessors for the last ninety years and more. Each year I start out thinking I know everything they will try to do, and every year I am surprised, and not un-often appalled! But mostly amazed, and frequently delighted. For instance-"

At that moment Harry Potter's voice rang out in the echoing corridor: "Watch out! Something's coming!"

It turned out that the warning gave only a few seconds of preparation time. But at least it meant that when a section of wall between the students and professors became cloudy, and evidently penetrable enough for a huge serpentine head, crested with a crimson frill, to poke through it and waver back and forth for a moment before turning its vulnerable mouth away from a powerful, even if ineffective, attempt from the Headmaster to turn the creature into a worm of more normal size, that they were more beginning to be ready for an emergency. A seemingly endless length of murky green muscular body flowed out of the wall, and moved in what it had decided was the evidently less hazardous direction of the students.

Even in the dim light the bright patch of crimson being flashed up on the top of the serpent's head could be seen. Daphne, who was currently between career ambitions, had once aspired to being a daring explorer, and had devoured books on strange and dangerous beasts that she would heroically bring back to amaze the pantywaists of the more civilized climes. "It's a bloody Basilisk!" she cried out.

The Basilisk's body had meanwhile slid into the excavated trench in the floor of the officially recognized Hogwarts corridor, and it was taking the creature a moment to sort things out. From around it there flashed the different coloured lights of various spells impacting it, fruitlessly.

Harry Potter's cool and low pitched voice came out with directions to his companions:

"Ron, grease up those stones stacked up, the pile nearest us. Your brothers' spell.

"Hermione, those silly Bluebell Flames you like to play with, send them right up near its eyes, but don't look at them. If you get yourself petrified I'll be extremely unhappy with you.

"Nev, Draco, Daphne, at the count of three we start using Wingardium on the top stone of that pile, making it slip off onto the snake. Now…one… two… three!"

"Oleum!"

"Azulfuego!"

"Wingardium Leviosa!"

"We'll just have to try it again! One, two, three!"

Yet despite Ron's best lubricating efforts the stones refused to slide off each other to either hit the beast, or block its path. Hermione's Blue Flames, at the limit of her ability to control them, were keeping the creature confused and hesitant in it advance, but the constant stinging of the curses and other spells hitting its nether regions was a spur-forward that it couldn't deny. At the moment it was in a quandary. One of the drawbacks of huge size was a distinct difficulty in reversing its course without being able to double its head backwards to point in the proper direction, especially in a (for it) narrow tunnel. Once it had made its choice it had only one direction to go until it was at another entry spot to the tunnels that lead back to its nest, and a chance to sort out all the confusion.

"Potter, ain't workin'," Draco yelled out.

"Draco have you got something? Fulmina et Tonitrua!" Harry shouted, as the yellow and white streaked spell he had shown them several weeks before (thunder and lightning in a blinding and deafening cone) shot out of his wand impacting the head of the Basilisk, and if not damaging it, certainly startling it into not advancing for a few moments.

'Well, Draco, you had to complain, didn't you?' the blond thought to himself. 'Now… what do you do if something is stuck at home? Call a House-elf. Maybe not here and now, though. Give it a hard smack? Maybe…'

"At three, where the top stone block is touching the side, everyone but Weasley, Blasting Curse!

One, two three!"

"**Confringo!**"

As the massive block finally began to move the snake jolted forward, startled by the sound of the combined explosions and the peppering of chips of rock that blew into its sides, in some place actually penetrating its scales. It was halfway past the point of the explosion when the topmost paving stone got past its tipping-point and began to obey the demands of gravity. By that time Harry had grabbed the fainting Malfoy and called out to the others it was time for a full paced retreat, or as he said it, "Run away, run away!"

Ω

Draco Malfoy woke up in the Infirmary at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, with great difficulty breathing, as he had rolled-up gauze pads stuck in his nose. As he jolted up to a sitting position on the bed, Matron Pomfrey looked over from her desk, gave a nod, and got up and walked over.

She stifled his attempts at speech, and pulled the plugs from his nostrils. The she looked at him for a moment, and nodded again.

"When they brought you in you were bleeding from your nose and ears. Simplest thing to do was just block the flow for a bit and stop it from just getting on everything. We don't want to use spells on an unconscious person like that unless we have to. Especially when a spell or potion might mess with some delicate structures and the patient can't give feedback. You'll be able to go to dinner tonight, so don't fret too much about Hospital food," she said with a chuckle. It was then when he noticed the food tray perched on a cart next to his bed.

"How'd I get here? I remember the spell…"

"You put far too much of your magic into your casting, I'm afraid. You young daredevils tend to do that. A great part of your magical education is about learning control and rationing your strength. Let this be a lesson to you, young man! You'll be seeing a lot more of this place if you don't learn how to limit your efforts properly!"

Draco decided not to tell her how when you have a murdering great Basilisk trying to make you lunch, conserving your precious magical energies for another day was the last thing you worried about. You had to have been there to appreciate that view of things.

A few hours later, when he entered the Great Hall for dinner, there was a great burst of cheering and clapping. By the time he had taken his seat, and the sound had been suppressed, the Headmaster stood up to make an announcement.

"Misses Granger and Greengrass; Misters Longbottom, Malfoy, Potter, and Weasley have all been extremely active in helping the School Administration investigate and excavate extremely important historical items and sites, and have been earning a hundred points each to Gryffindor and Slytherin Houses.

"The House-elves of Hogwarts have prepared a special desert for the ending of this meal in celebration, so let's tuck in and work our way through the courses until we get to it!"

As he unwrapped his eating utensils from the napkin, Millie Bulstrode leaned over and whispered (as much as she was capable of) into Draco's ear, "I noticed how Dumbledore mentioned as many Gryffs as he could before he got to us Snakes!"

Blaise, on Draco's other side, protested, "He just went alphabetically, with the girls first and then the boys!"

"And who set things up that way?" Millie said with dark suspicions. Then she continued on a happier note; "You notice… a hundred points each. That means a Slytherin is worth twice what a Gryffindor is!"

Draco made a small groan, and cradled his head in his hands.

Ω

"You notice Dumbledore never actually said what we were getting rewarded for, not honestly, anyway," Hermione said that evening as The Boys sat in a gathered circle of easy chairs in the Gryffindor Common Room. Ordinarily Second Years wouldn't have been allowed nearly so much privacy or pushiness, but for some reason The Boys (mixed gender group though they were) were generally undisturbed by the older students, except for the Weasley twins, who were a law unto themselves and not to be criticized or emulated.

"I mean, it's not as if at least the truth isn't being whispered about by everyone," she continued.

"Along with a whole raft of other rumors that are plain barmy," Neville contributed.

"Harry and Malfoy were having a death duel and were interrupted by eldritch horrors that they teamed up to defeat. I'm kind of miffed that the rest of us get so little mention in that one. After all, it's only a rumor; it wouldn't be hard to add a couple of names, give us a bit of publicity," Ron complained.

"But Greengrass was there, and no one would think that she was there acting as Draco's Second for the duel, so they can't make it into some big melee that got interrupted," Harry said reasonably.

"Do they have Seconds in melees?" Hermione asked, never having come across that situation before.

Neville, concentrating fiercely on trying to remember his lessons on Wizardly Affairs of Honor, shook his head. "Melees, battles, murderous encounters… pretty much free-form affairs on how you manage them. Come-as-you-are parties. Don't forget to bring your wand as a courtesy sort of thing."

"Is there any problem letting my dorm mates know what really happened?" Hermione asked.

"In all the confusion, I don't think anyone remembered to tell us to keep things quiet. Bit of an oversight, on the Headmaster's part," Harry said. "He must be slipping; the years catching up on him, or something."

Ω

Later that evening, Severus Snape gave a deep sigh, and approached the fireplace in his room in the Slytherin complex down in the dungeons. He had duties and obligations that he felt he could not ignore. He cast a pinch of powder into the fireplace, saying at the same time, "Malfoy House. Ah, Lucius, good to see you were at home… I wonder if you might pop in to **The Three Broomsticks** in an hour or so… Draco is fine, but he has had an Adventure that you should probably know about… Good! Ten it is."

Ω

At the same time, in far more dingy (if not worse lit) surroundings, the **Hog's Head Inn **located in the dingy alley of Hogsmeade, a town so tiny that it could only afford one dingy alley, a different conversation was taking place.

Aberforth Dumbledore, the younger scapegrace brother of the more famous Albus Dumbledore, and the proprietor of the establishment, was sitting down in the mainly deserted Main Room of the place, and sharing a long one (actually his third) with the only customer currently refreshing himself of a Sunday evening. They had been talking for at least an hour or more. Though perhaps it was best to say that Aberforth had been talking, with the handsome youth he was sitting with mostly nodding and making little encouraging sounds to spur him on.

The elderly barkeep seemed to be having some difficulty keeping his eyes open, yet seemed unable to stop the flow of the words that poured out of him. The deepest secrets and resentments of his long life kept on emerging, and the handsome young Tom Riddle sitting by his side kept on listening and drinking it all in. Drinking it all in, everything about Aberforth, every iota of his life. Tom Riddle was drinking it all in.


	12. Chapter 12

I do not own, or receive any benefit from the Harry Potter properties.

Palimpsest

Expanding Horizons, by Building Doors: Chapter 12

By Larry Huss

That evening, after the last vestige of the elaborate ice cream Bombe had been greedily devoured by the students and staff of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore and a few of his closest friends had repaired to his study. He had a few pointed comments on recent events to make.

"Fifty bloody years! It was hidden here for fifty bloody years and I never noticed it. Albus bloody Dumbledore, greatest Wizard of our age never noticed it! A Second Year Witch figures it out in half an hour, once it's brought to her attention. She didn't take fifty bloody years! I should hang it all up, retire to a cottage in Kent, and raise Flobberworms!"

Minerva had never seen Albus so agitated, and she was laughing so hard she was choking on her whiskey. It probably didn't help that Filius was just shaking his head and sighing. If only Severus was here; he always had the knack for making Albus go all staid and proper. On second thought, it was probably better to let Albus blow off his head of steam. Being the voice of calm probably took a toll on him… best to let it out from time to time. Now the Headmaster was getting a feeling for what it took to deal with Hermione Granger, undoubtedly the most irritating young witch in Hogwarts.

The girl was brilliant, brassy, and often preternaturally sanctimonious. So irritating, in fact, that she often reminded Minerva of herself at that age. One of those students, who when they calmed down a few decades in the future you'd have visit to hash over old times, and each would laugh at themselves and their long-gone follies.

Still, Albus had a point. How had everyone gotten so complacent about that death of a student back in '43? During the Muggle war that had been going on old Dippet had had an easy time in sweeping everything under the rug. Everybody had been more concerned in just avoiding Grindelwald's raids and German bombers than the death of a rather unpopular Muggle-born student. But Albus had had suspicions, and then let them just be idle thoughts for a lazy afternoon's musing. It had all happened before she or Filius had become Staff, so their hands were clean, but with Argus and his silly cat petrified until a proper mandrake potion could be brewed that was cold comfort.

And Granger, from the story she'd heard, had faced Severus down. Yes, there was a good bit of iron in the spine of that irritating girl.

Ω

Fred Granger carefully placed the pulp-paper catalogue on top of the pile tottering on the kitchen table. Jean came in, looked at his face, and turned the water on to boil. For the last week they'd been alternating looking through as compete a selection of the catalogues of magical bookshops from around the world (only in English, French, German, and Italian though. Those were their only languages) for materials on a few subjects that their daughter had implied were matters of life or death.

Now, with Hermione and books that wasn't ordinarily what anyone else would have called a 'life-and-death matter.' But their eyes had been opened by their exposure to some of the realities of the Wizarding World, especially as how they related to Harry Potter. He was their daughter's best friend and a sweet kid in his own right. But he had enemies hunting him. They sympathized, but would honestly have preferred to just pull Hermione out of the whole mess if they thought they could get away with it. But they knew that you didn't have to look for trouble to find it. It would do you the courtesy of looking you up when it wanted to visit. They had read Hermione's copy of _Dark Lords of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Century_ by Nigel Frent, and in that hidden war that had raged while they were innocent young parents, mere obscurity had been no protection for the guiltless. In a world where knowing a skill or a spell could be the difference between… well… life-or-death, their daughter would not be going in unprepared if they could help it!

And thus the pile of catalogues. All bookstores had a policy about mail-order (or Owl-Order, as the case may be), and were eager to get their merchandise out of the door. The Grangers had gone through them and made a listing, both in hard copy and on their computer, of what looked like the twenty best items in each of the categories Hermione had said she desperately needed to find out about.

Mind Arts: how to conceal your thoughts; in fact, how to conceal that you were concealing your thoughts. And how to peek into someone else's mind on the sly. Not exactly a comforting thing to have your adolescent daughter studying when you were trying to present a facade of calm wisdom when dealing with… well… Hermione.

Becoming a Stealth Witch (or Wizard). As the saying goes, it's hard to hit what you don't know is there. But to Fred and Jean that seemed to say that Hermione was expecting to be getting into situations where there was someone was going to be trying to hit her.

Detecting concealed Curses, Hexes, deadly poisons, and subtle traps and detection spells. How very reassuring, Curses and Hexes.

A medley of magical cops' manuals on how to cast or disperse a seemingly endless variety of Curses, Hexes, deadly poisons, and how to set up subtle traps and detection spells. Their little girl!

Games Animagi play. Those ones seemed harmless enough, until reading the short descriptions revealed they had a lot in common with KGB or CIA manuals on how to be a spy, or an assassin.

The Grangers had no illusion that they could order any of the materials themselves. There were clear indications that sales to any but Witches or Wizards in good standing… or at least Witches or Wizards (and with cash in hand)… was unlikely to occur. There was also the fact that if they totaled up the costs for the various texts, manual, encyclopedia, and guides there was a bill for of almost £4000, including Shipping and Handling. Some degree of literary triage was obviously needed.

So, Paul the Owl had to do some hard traveling to bring up the descriptions photocopied for the selected entries up to Hogwarts, along with a few simple parental requirements: no more than three entries for each category, selection guided by a knowledgeable magical (were the newer items better, or the older ones, for example) advisor, nothing illegal to be ordered, and for her to make a separate order up for each store that they could confirm was made by a magical customer. Her parents agreed to cover the costs of the materials (and Shipping and Handling).

Ω

"It's your own fault, Hermione," Neville Longbottom said. "You are showing a distinct failure of imagination; that's the problem."

Harry gave a slight nod, all he could do in the way of communication at the moment, as he was a new species (as far as anyone could tell) of eagle and lacked either human or avian apparatus suitable for speech as the others could understand it. His current statistics, allowing for his adolescent state, suggested when he was fully grown he'd be a nine pound bird with a wingspan of seven to eight feet. Besides the fact that none of those that had seen his form were expert zoologists, there was the problem that his feathers were medium to light grey, and all imbued with a slivery sheen. All very dramatic, and even attractive, but was it practical? However his difficulties paled before that which had presented itself to Hermione.

Where Fred had advanced less in transformation, at least there was no doubt about him; he was going to be an extremely normal Border Collie. Perhaps not unnoticeable, but certainly explainable anywhere in the British Isles. George was working on getting him an ID tag and license that he could wear (or would appear when he transformed) that would identify him as being a Weasley family dog, and 'if found please return to Ottery St. Catchpole.' A useful piece of equipment for the modern age.

Neville, currently taking a rest from his efforts was seemingly going to be Sus scrofa, the European wild boar. Not a form that would let him just wander up and down the street even in magical neighborhoods, but within its limitation nothing to be sneezed at, especially as the boar was a magically potent beast by nature.

But Neville… while awkwardly sized… was, within the conventions of Animagi, normal enough. He wasn't turning into a cute, furry, five foot two inch tall raccoon.

Thankfully, at least the part of the magic that dealt with her clothing (both ways) worked just fine. She could even use the senses and climbing talents (allowing for weight) of her immigrant form. But 5'2" was certainly going to make her stand out wherever she was spotted, in the woods or towns. She had begun to understand, emotionally and on a personal level, exactly why there were so few registered and active Animagi.

It was Neville's theory that the transformation was given subtle directions by the mind on handling how the details were done. Harry had wanted for some time to be something special (but not freakish), and so his basic flying form was a little customized, sort of like special detailing on a motorcar. But Hermione's literal-mindedness, he suggested, didn't allow her to let herself be seen as small and overlookable. Bit of an ego there, girl.

Ron was keeping silent during all this. If anyone did, he should know the way the Animagi spell could just give you a booby prize. Instead of sticking his foot in his mouth (and risking her putting hers up his bum) he had been looking for an effective and time limited shrinking spell that would put her into a more normal size range. He hadn't found it yet, but the potential effects when he did were enormous. For example: Hermione was a girl… and girls had somehow begun to occupy a larger degree of his attention lately for some reason.

Ω

"What is wrong with everything nowadays?" Lucius Malfoy asked himself. The damned Mark on his arm was waxing and waning with no rhyme or reason. Surely the Dark Lord was either back or still out of this world? Draco getting applauded by the whole student body, including the Gryffindors! Certainly it was far better than him being hissed at, but the idiot boy had risked himself, the only hope left of the Malfoy line, instead of just running with enough speed to leave the others behind to provide snake food.

For that matter: a Basilisk? They hadn't had any of them around Hogwarts when he was a student there, had there? No doubt it was another one of Dumbledore's Groundskeeper's pets that had got loose again. How else could something that large and dangerous be roaming around in the school, unless Dumbledore had known about it? Instead of being rightfully castigated as a danger to the best blood of Wizarding Britain, the old fool was being lauded as a hero and a scholar, having discovered Slytherin's Beast. No doubt pulling the location of the Chamber of Secrets out of his arse would be his next trick!

This was undoubtedly Dumbledore's year. Potter had escaped from the honey trap Lucius had arranged. The loss of the Diary had set back Lucius' plans to cement his authority over the remnants of the Knights of Walpurgis ("Death Eaters" had such a negative sound to it), and the death of Aberforth Dumbledore had removed a permanent embarrassment to the man, as well as no doubt giving him a valuable property in a prime location. The old man was probably dancing a jig up in his rooms at the school, and putting on a solemn face for public consumption. Some people had all the luck!

Ω

"Harry, exactly how did you know that the Basilisk was going appear last week?" Hermione asked as they dueled with their forks for the last piece of buttered toast on the serving plate. True, as soon as it was empty it would send a signal to the kitchen, and a new load of toast would be up and available within a minute or two, but it was the principle of the thing.

"Heard it; it wasss…" his voice trailed off as a memory and a warning popped up in his otherwise breakfast orientated mind. "Tell you later." He had a look on his face that suggested that he wasn't much looking forward to redeeming his promise.

It was only after all classes, dinner, and as much dragged-out lesson revision as he could manage without looking like he was dodging it, that Harry led them to the room where Fluffy once lay in all of his grandeur. If he had waited too much longer they would have had to try to get back after curfew, he evidently wanted to keep this short.

It was just the four of them there, standing in the cold room, and Harry's face was bleaker than the February landscape hidden in the dark outside. Oddly enough, it was Neville who broke the awkward silence.

"I know why the Headmaster hasn't been around much the last few days. My Grandmother's solicitor also handles the Dumbledore family's affairs, and she's such a gossip that she let slip that the Headmaster's brother died, that very night we were fighting the Basilisk. He's been settling-up his brother's affairs, and getting in touch with relatives and things, so he's not been around. Taking it hard, too, it seems."

"The solicitor said that there have a fair number of people dropping dead that way lately, with no signs of anything wrong with them or anything. It's getting a bit suspicious she said. I wonder what of."

With that Neville became quiet again, and as the silence stretched a bit longer Harry took a deep breath and launched his news.

"Down in the tunnels. Down there. I've got good ears, from trying to stay out of the Dursleys' way and all. So I heard it in the walls as it was going by."

"Nothing mysterious about that… just good ears. Why are you making such a mystery about it?" asked Ron.

A sigh, and then: "I heard it going by and saying 'I'm so hungry, I want to get my teeth into something warm for a change,' and stuff like that. I'm a, I'm a Parselmouth! T…an Auror told me about them. It means… I don't know, but probably something bad. And people are scared of Parselmouths, but I swear I don't mean anything by it, or want to hurt anybody or anything!" Harry finished with his head hanging, and his shoulders slumped in defeat.

Both Ron and Neville were silent. After all, it was a rare Magical child who didn't pick up the common folklore about Parselmouths. It was very sad news to know that one of your best friends, a person you knew was decent to the core, was fated to end up as a maniacal killer, or a criminal at the best.

"'Parselmouth' means that you can understand snakes?"asked Hermione, always eager to increase her knowledge of Wizarding culture.

"And I can talk to them, too," Harry said.

"That is interesting! Since you turn into a bird, I expect it has nothing to do with our Animagus work. I wonder if there are other animal languages we can learn? "

Ron burst out, "You don't know what this means, Hermione. Parseltongue is… people who can use it are… evil! Like Dark Lords and deranged sorcerers, and things like that. Harry is doomed!"

"Ridiculous!" Hermione snapped back. "First, because it's Harry, and I don't think there's a trap or pitfall that Harry can't get out of if we're there to help him. So he is so not doomed!

"And I know of an ancient Greek. The name escapes me but I wouldn't lie about this, who had a snake lick his ears and then he could understand snakes and that saved his life, so knowing snake-talk is just useful, not evil. Evil is what you do, not what you know!"

The logic behind Hermione's defense might not have been what convinced the others, but her burning conviction at least gave them pause from writing off Harry Potter as the next wizardly Charles Manson (at best). As the other boys mumbled apologies to Harry for ever doubting him, Hermione was desperately hoping that she was right. But who could she ask, where could she get some reassurance that "H Potter trainhelpalways" wasn't a message from a future Evil Hermione who had sent a message back in time in order to help her evil Master… or even (blush!) lover.

Were snakes even evil? And even if you could talk to something evil, that certainly didn't say anything about your character, did it? Otherwise all police, and lawyers, and judges… dangerous to go there, even in thought. But… yes. There was one place she could probably put her trust into, one source of honest review. She couldn't go to McGonagall, and the Headmaster would only dance around the issue (and have something to use against Harry in the future), but there was one group she could trust…

Ω

"So… are snakes evil?" asked Hermione Granger. The others were a little startled at her sudden introduction of that topic of conversation, but, as always, were game, and launched right in.

"Have to be. Like… they use poison, right?" said Lavender Brown.

"Or are you talking about Slytherins, because I have an aunt who was a Snake, and she seems decent enough to me," said Fay Dunbar.

Kandice was pensive for a moment, then added, "Well, mostly they just eat bugs and things, anyway. The big ones, that can eat people… they might not be evil as such, but anything that has me on the lunch menu is going to get a wand pointed at it, technically evil or not. Unless you mean, did mean Slytherins, and in that case I'll back you; except Daphne. She's scary."

"Well… Indian snakes aren't evil, though they can be dangerous," Parvati said. "You just have to be a bit cautious when you're about them, talk polite, and don't do any sudden moves."

"Talk to snakes? Isn't that like… being a Parselmouth?" Hermione cunningly interjected.

"Well, in India some of the best magical families can talk to snakes, though I wouldn't believe them if they told you that they have a Naga Princess somewhere back in their ancestry. Some people boast so! Anyway, except for endless dragging on about their genealogy, Parselmouths aren't any more evil than anyone else, at least in India." Parvati concluded, with a definite air of closing that topic of discussion. The other girls got the impression that she had at least some familial relations that never shut up about their hypothetical Naga ancestors, but were otherwise relatively harmless.

Some people, however, either neither got, or else delighted in ignoring, hints.

"But have you ever heard of a British Witch who was a Parselmouth that wasn't bad?" Fay asked. "I mean, you don't have to be one to be a menace, but I've never heard of someone good in Europe that talked with snakes."

"St Francis," Hermione said smugly. It was one of the few things she had been able to remember from Binns' history lessons, a long list of great figures in both the Magical and Muggle worlds, including more than one medieval saint. It was only Muggles who thought he had talked with a wolf!

"Mungo Bonham, too," Lavender conceded. Once her mind was turned on she had a good memory for medical things. The founder of Wizarding Britain's only full service hospital had been a famous Parselmouth, to the confusion of many who wanted their world to be simple. In fact a good bit of the magical pharmacopeia he had developed was supposed to come from having observed snakes and their actions when sick or injured.

Parvati nodded her head, satisfied. There; you had a recognized saint, and a sort of secular saint, who were known to chat with the occasional serpent. Her case was proven.

Ω

While Harry was relieved when the result of the Gryff Girls brainstorming was announced by Hermione, he was also a little apprehensive about disappointing his friends. While it was nice that Ron and Neville no longer had to brace themselves visibly in order to talk with him, he was a worried that they'd just start expecting him to start acting all saintly and perfect. He didn't feel he could, or wanted, to do that. He'd lucked out, he knew, to fall in with a bunch right at the start of school who were neither snobs or idolaters of the Boy-Who-Lived. Having to become 'Saint Harry' didn't appeal in the least.

Of course, he didn't want to risk doing anything that might revive his 'evil Parselmouth' problem, so his options to head off sainthood were limited. It seemed to him that the only real solution to his situation was a really good prank. It had to be against a prominent target, it had to be maximally embarrassing to the target, and above all it had to be funny, and not dangerous. Flitwick was out: he was too nice to mess with, and far too quick for safety. McGonagall was right dangerous; she had had too many high level pranksters in her own House (in fact, she had two hellions right now) for her ever to be properly taken off guard. Snape… a good target, but the aftermath was likely to be vicious. For his group, the ones he wanted to impress, most of their other teachers weren't really all that impressive. Messing with a ghost, or a human Cheshire Cat wasn't going to be impressive enough, and Neville would certainly be aggrieved if he went after Sprout. So, Snape it must be.

The first step, as Auror-Trainee (she had moved up a notch) Tonks would have advised, was surveillance. Luckily, an invisibility cloak made that his strong suit.

Valentine's Day came and went. Professor Lockhart, emboldened by the end to Slytherin's Serpent, managed to heavily embarrass or disturb most of the students of the school with his hiring of a crowd of unemployed dwarfs in costume to deliver Valentine cards. By the mid-afternoon Harry had taken to being present for class attendance under his invisibility cloak to hide out from the constant interruptions. And then, with covering obscuration by his friends, disappearing until the next class. Back in his Muggle School the teachers had prevented crushing students from ganging up on the more popular kids. Here it was a free-for-all, and for every one (L. Brown to R. Weasley, A. Goldstein to F. Dunbar) one of his friends got, Harry would have received three dozen, being TBWL, Basilisk Slayer (no matter how much he and the others had tried to spread the glory to the other worthy contributors), and budding Quidditch star. On the positive side, George was walking on air, as his relationship with Angelina was prospering.

It wasn't going to be elegant, he decided. He didn't really have the skills… yet… for that. But attacking from ambush should give him time to do his two-part prank. The first part was a simple push (magically or Muggle-y), to put Snape on the outside of the school wards. The second part was where Harry had to practice his Charm-craft. He had seen Snape on Supply-duty, letting the school House-elves in through the wards with the daily supplies. He had studied, with a fierce concentration that would have elicited praise from any teacher, exactly how Snape had 'opened' the wards to allow them to be crossed. Now he had to figure out how to quickly 'reset' the opening sequence, so that Snape would be locked on the outside by the time he came to his feet. It would be like changing the combination on a combination lock.

Harry decided that over-preparation wasn't as dangerous as under-preparation was, and also followed Professor Flitwick. As was his nature, the diminutive teacher made his motions, and spoke his commands with extraordinary clarity, the result of all those years of making sure that even those with thick wits and sitting in the rear of the room could see and hear how a spell had to be cast. Seeing how it was done by another teacher convinced Harry that there was only one spell that would unlock the wards. Still, he thought a bit more observation wouldn't come amiss, so in early March he repeated his surveillance with Lockhart, and received a massive surprise.

First, Lockhart went to a different location on the school grounds than Snape or Professor Flitwick had. Harry wondered if there would be, perhaps, a different spell needed there.

Second, Lockhart just waved the Hogwarts House-elf that had accompanied him, right through where the wards should be, without the least pretence of actually casting a spell.

Third, a few minutes the House-elf came back, leading a tied up string of large, floating, bundles right through the same point. At that point the Elf went on toward one of the Service entrances to the school, while Lockhart just sauntered off whistling a jaunty air. No re-setting of any sort.

Harry waited until the person employed as a teacher (as opposed to the persons who were teachers) had got out of sight, and then went a dozen yards off to the side and advanced, until he came to the edge of the school wards, and was rudely stopped. He then coasted along the edge of the barrier, his fingers tingling with the light touch of the magical protection. Until he was a few feet from Lockhart's recent presence, where all such sensation and resistance to penetration ceased, revealing a gap in the invisible walls about the width of a person's outstretched arms.

With reluctance, Harry clumsily repeated the 'locking' sequence he had seen both Snape and Professor Flitwick do before returning from their supply duties to the school. The barrier was back in place. With three tries (evidently opening a sally port in the wards was more difficult than closing them up) the gap re-established itself. Things became very clear to him then. Snape was no longer a prime target any more.

Ω

"The lazy bastard," Hermione said.

No one made a motion to reprimand her for the use of such language. It was merely the crystallization of what they had all been thinking.

"It's a bit difficult for a Second Year to open up a hole in the wards, after he's studied some masters who have been given the key, so for Lockhart it must have been a nightmare," Ron said. "So once he got it right… and how many hours did it take, I wonder… he never closed it up again."

"If the Beast hasn't shown up again it's been sheer good luck, and the fact the hole isn't easily visible. But you can't depend on something like that, can you?" Hermione asked. No one could think up a quibble in that assessment.

"Harry can't report it; none of us can. It would be like telling he was stalking Lockhart. Only way to take care of things would be… direct action!" Neville said with a certain relish. Since getting a working wand he had been slowly becoming a far more aggressive fellow. Not in a nasty way, but nowadays it was him, more than Harry, who was the Twins undercover operator and general assistant.

It wasn't in question that Neville was right; the problem was how to get the right effects and avoid any consequences. The grievous rent in the Hogwarts' security must be exposed and taken care of. Lockhart had to be not merely mildly embarrassed (that had become too common an occurrence), but utterly exploded. No physical damage must be done to him, but he would have to be so discredited that even he couldn't think he could show his face around the school any longer. And, most critically; whatever happened would have to be impossible to be traced back to them.

"Vanity, vanity, all is vanity," Ron finally came out with. "That's all he is, after all. A robe maker's dummy, with some famous teeth. I'm sure there's a spell that'll make them grow huge or something."

"Large teeth are not a laughing matter," Hermione reproved Ron.

One of the few points of continued disagreement she had with her parents was over their opinion that what she considered disfiguring buck teeth (on her), were to them both cutely endearing, and were anyway best dealt with after her full dental and skeletal growth was finished. From the rather puzzled looks on her male companions Hermione suddenly realized that they saw nothing wrong with her, nothing but good-old-Hermione. She wasn't certain if that was terrible (though it probably was), or reassuring. It was like a small knitting needle to her heart; but after all, she had long acknowledged that romance and love were never to be hers. At least her grotesque appearance wasn't setting them off, yet. Somewhere, deep in her mind, a cynical Commentator made a remark something like, 'are we going back to the secular nun thing again, Hermione? Get a grip!'

After a brief and puzzled silence Ron continued, "So if teeth are out, we might want to cover him with feathers, and have a giant weasel chase the big chicken right out through the gap in the wards. That'll do everything, just about."

"Isn't there something Muggles call Super-glue?" Neville asked.

"Probably be a bit awkward to get him covered. I think the Twins are doing interesting things in the line of transformative sweets. They're working on something they're calling Canary Creams. Lockhart has a sweet t-tooth," Harry gave an uncertain sideways glance at Hermione, "and all we have to do is make sure that he's the one to eat some."

"Now, how do we get a weasel of sufficient size?" mused Neville, ever the practical one.

'Hagrid!' Was the thought in four active minds.

Ω

Draco Malfoy was puzzled by his world. He'd always thought that as he grew older things would make more sense; that he would understand all the 'We don't do things like that', and 'what can you expect from that sort of people,' and 'it's the done thing!' Small hints which his parents had set up as his guide posts since he was first allowed out in public. Instead, he discovered that not only did good performance not bring reward (a Muggle idea, imperfectly realized even in their own world), but proper filial obedience could bring silent, almost pitying disapproval.

His Potions work was (and after all Godfather Snape's patient tutoring damn well should have been) superior to all of his Year. His other marks were without exception in the top levels of grading. All was just as Father had demanded. Still, something better than a grudging grunt and the mere lack of a reprimand would have been nice.

He had, after some difficulties, managed to become on friendly terms with Potter (as Father had dictated). He'd even managed to develop a modus viviendi with the Weasleys (which with five of them about was simple good sense). But from both Father and Professor Snape there was a definite if unspoken air of… disappointment, it almost seemed.

And now, becoming a hero of sorts, and elevating the opinion of Slytherins in the eyes of all of his contemporaries to a level unexpected and unprecedented in living memory, he had received only tactical carping and sniping about actions he still couldn't see had to have been less than both obvious at the time, and hugely successful. Certainly if he were to, in his adulthood, seek political power it was better to be known as one of the Basilisk Slayers, rather than to be whispered about as 'the one who ran away.'

There were other questions he had lately been noticing had been there, waiting for their discovery: why was Godfather Snape so down on Potter? The boy was less trouble than most, and a better student, also.

How had Longbottom suddenly become an effective wizard, and why was he almost pathetically accommodating with Granger? A nice enough girl, in her way, for a M… Muggleborn. But hardly anything exceptional about her (looks, family, wealth) except her cleverness.

How had a murdering great Basilisk stayed around Hogwarts for 1000, or even merely fifty years, with the greatest wizards and witches in the world studying and teaching there without noticing it? It wasn't as if the thing had been out on some island in the middle of the sea. The thing was sixty feet long if it was an inch! Chamber of Secrets be damned, the snake had been up and about often enough, even killing students! Somebody (besides Granger) should have figured something out.

Pansy. It hadn't all been her; someone else had to have been involved. So… Father. Why tell your son to get friendly with someone, and then have someone else try to destroy them? Tracing the chain of events hadn't been all that hard, considering her behavior all last summer. It was the chain of thought that led to the 'why' that eluded Draco.

Moody Day. An Auror shows up at school, then Quirrell runs off to his death, and someone no one has seen all year is hauled away. And according to Potter's hints, it all somehow fits into Uncle Sirius getting out of Azkaban and becoming the new Lord Black. Along with a number of other changes in the membership and structure of the Black Family, its fortune, and eventual disposition.

The very unofficial and officially below-the-Professors-observational-horizon Defense Self-Study Group. It shouldn't exist; it shouldn't have been tolerated. It shouldn't be inter-house (especially Slytherin-Gryffindor), and it shouldn't have been (according to the Weasley Twins, who had been up at school for several years) more useful and better run than the DADA in the official curriculum. Potter had a source for his spells and learning drills; who was it? Draco didn't mind, particularly. He liked what they were doing there, especially considering how he was often the one to show up brightest. Still, it was something that shouldn't be happening.

The Beast that had attacked the school over Yule Holiday. No one had figured out how it got in, why it bothered, and why it hadn't been seen since.

Both Father and Godfather having recurring pains in their arms that waxed and waned with no rhyme or reason. And how they somehow looked furtive and… almost guilty when it happened. The time Draco had asked the Professor why he wasn't going to the Infirmary… well, Draco never wanted to be on the receiving end of a glare like that again!

At least this year was coming to a close; there'd probably be no more weird stuff coming up, at least until next year, when (if past history was any guide) there'd be a new DADA Professor, and the entire school would fall into an enchanted slumber… Draco laughed at last. Finally, something odder than the last two years!

Ω

"It's a no-go," Ron said, "George said the Creams won't be ready in time for the end of the year. They're still prone to have the feathers appear on the insides, and that's too close to an assault for them to get involved with."

Harry nodded sadly. "And Hagrid's got no weasels or ferrets. Says as a groundskeeper he has no business with such poacher's things. Oh, and a giant-sized weasel would probably just run all amok anyway, not worth anything as a pet he says. If Hagrid isn't all for a giant animal for a pet… well, I'd stay away from it!"

"What we have to do now is concentrate on the essentials," Ron went on. "Let them know about Lockhart and the wards, and do him in as a separate thing, if we get time before he gets the can."

"If he gets the can," Hermione all but snarled. The others were a little taken aback by that, but only a little. They knew that she felt Lockhart's incompetence was not merely amusing, but a vile attack on academic excellence, which was, after all, one of her obsessions. Her increasing paranoia about the school administration's lack of dedication to the safety of its students was more pronounced (but only a little) than theirs, and accordingly her desire for exemplary punishment of the chief practitioner of that sin was all the more fierce. On her it looked good.

Neville asked, "Does Lockhart always leave the same place open?" Harry nodded; he'd even unlocked the ward just before Lockhart had gone out to use the breach the last time.

Neville nodded back in satisfaction. A Potter for leadership, a Weasley for tactics, the Granger for knowledge… but for politics you needed a Longbottom.

"Here's what we'll have to do…" Neville began.

Ω

Dobby was laying low. Ever since his outburst at the turning of the year he'd expected to be discovered, denounced, and ordered to punish himself beyond even the ability of House-elves to endure. Instead… nothing. Nothing except for the blessed reprieve when he had discovered, by chance alone, that Master's evil plan against Mister Harry Potter had gone awry all by itself long before.

Now the Master was busy doing other evil things, and Mr. Harry Potter was far from his evil thoughts. Dobby was staying alert, Dobby was being canny, and Dobby was, for now, laying low.

Ω

Colin Creevey was in photographic seventh heaven. Dreams that he'd never realized that he had were coming true. Not only was he going to get a chance to take candids of Harry Potter, he'd be able to shot the rest of The Boys (and Granger) in action! And all the while doing a service to his school! Having the loan of a genuine Wizarding camera from Longbottom, and topflight film and a Salamander Flash attachment was just icing on the cake. So he practiced with the camera until he could focus and shoot it repeatedly in a bare second, as he had been warned that he probably wouldn't have much more time to get his perfect opportunity.

While Mr. Creevey worked on perfecting his performance the Boys (and, of course, Granger) were diligently working on their parts in the forthcoming festivities. The preliminaries were difficult, finding out what the Target would be wearing on the day in question, and abstracting a thread from each significant article, but crackerjack timing would be needed in the actual implementation. The Flash, the Pull, the Bump, the Hold, and finally the Seal, all had to fit together with seamless functioning. By the end of the week the rhythm was down, and only the needed glimpse at the Schedule was needed.

Colin shivered, but not with cold. His was an essential part of operation; maybe the essential part. He couldn't risk disappointing his Housemates. He couldn't risk freezing and missing what might be the most important photo he would ever take. He knew it was true, Potter had loaned him, under a vow of secrecy, a real invisibility cloak! The others would be all in ghillie suits (or rather in one excessively large one that would allow them sufficient movement, where they had got it Colin hadn't the slightest idea) for their part of the operation.

And there was their prey… the object of loathing and disdain. Colin poked the lens out of the front of the cloak; in the gathering dusk it was too small to be noticed. He could hear the blood in his ears like the roaring sea. Then Lockhart began to wave the House-elf through the unset hole in the school wards, and Colin's finger depressed and the Salamander Flash went off for the first time.

Each successive picture caught the man in a further stage of his humiliation, and documented his negligence in his duties. The wizarding photos showed him waving the elf through the deactivated wards for two seconds, then an overlapping one showed him in his startled reaction (dropping his wand) at the sudden light. Next came the Summoning spell where his robe, jacket, and trousers were whipped off of his body (his lilac boxer shorts and canary singlet showed up very well in the early dusk, as did the corset around his middle zone), and then he was pushed through where the magical barrier should have been. Then he was hit with a Body-Bind, and before it had a chance to be countered (if he actually had the ability) a chant reset the ward. The Elf, still on the other side, began to wail. Now it would be late with its delivery, and there would be no roast for dinner!

The shaggy hummock that the literary Lockhart (that is, the one in the books) would certainly have noticed rose and retreated. Taking that as his cue, Colin tucked the camera back in to the cloak, and followed suit. It was all finished, in no more than fifteen seconds. Crackerjack timing.

That evening there was a vacancy at the faculty table, and only one meat course (eked out with a fine hash that had had its origin in an earlier meal) was presented.

Professor Lockhart was finally discovered and let in to the school the next morning, but had to cancel classes for that day, and spend it in the Infirmary to deal with the chill he had suffered over night. He complained about his unjust assault to the Headmaster, of course, but couldn't even suggest who might have done it to him, of all people! He was particularly bitter about the good citizens of Hogsmeade who had refused to admit him to any of their homes, or allow him to set up camp in the only open Inn in town, due to his being "some weirdo running around half-naked, this being a family town!" How much difference a decent set of robes makes in life!

That morning each of the Houses had discovered multiple sets of photographic prints of Professor Lockhart's ignominy, along with a short description of the reason for it. As he had left the school unrobed and unprotected, so had he been treated. The Headmaster had also received a copy of the photos and explanation, which was written in no recognizable hand. The incredulous Headmaster had reluctantly interrogated the House-elf whose visage had been caught in photos 1, 4, and 6. On finding out how sloth had negated all of his efforts to increase the safety of his students (especially one) he broke out in considerable profanity when admonishing the errant Professor.

Though Dumbledore had no doubts about identity of the culprits (the House-elf having distinctly remembered a number of voices, only one of which was female) he had no proof, nor desire to gather any, in this case. Lockhart had been headed for the employment axe in any case. He just wished the students had trusted him enough to have come forward with their suspicions (well, certainties) in the first place. Their lack of trust saddened him.

Colin Creevey sent a fine set of photographs of his housemates to his home later that week.

When Mrs. Augusta Longbottom learned about the affair from her grandson she beamed. He had been listening to all of those stories about how to do Practical Politics!


End file.
